


Empty Spaces

by thisisapaige



Series: Empty Spaces In Between The Lines [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Bisexuality, Canon Universe, Canon-Typical Violence, Cas POV, Dean has issues with it, Drug Abuse, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, Drug Withdrawal, Fallen Cas, M/M, More angst, No Beta, Part one and two are complete so you won't be left hanging, Part one of three, Pre-Series Dean, Promise, Shades of endverse Cas, Slow Burn, Tattooed Castiel, brief cas/other, but he regains hope, cas is a sad bean, even more angst, mostly I think, serisouly read the next part right after you finish this it will resolve stuff, then worse, things slowly get better, whole lotta drug use wanna be clear on that, whoops
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-26
Updated: 2018-07-05
Packaged: 2019-05-29 05:33:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 48,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15066263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thisisapaige/pseuds/thisisapaige
Summary: [Castiel] found the colour. It was a green, one of the few gentle colours at the edges of his dreams and the one he tried to capture in his paintings, never quite finding the right hue. He spent so long chasing the colours, trying to find it though pills and needles, but they always evaded his grasp. Yet he found one, right here, hiding in the eyes of a stranger. He studied the colour, the subtle differences between dark and light, the little flecks of gold nearly hidden in the sea of green, the ring around the outside. He studied it, trying to commit the colour to memory.The other man cleared his throat. “Uh, dude?” Oh. Castiel forgot the colour was attached to a person.~~~What if Castiel had fallen before the start of the series and met Dean on a routine hunt? Set in the spring before Dean goes to find Sam in Stanford. Intended as a three part series.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! Thank you for taking a chance on an unknown name. :)
> 
> This is the first full-length anything I've written. Also the first thing I'm brave enough to share with fandom. Please be mindful of the tags and don't be afraid to tell me if I missed anything. I want to do this right.
> 
> Warning: Cas struggles with addition through most of this fic. He does make great strides in recovery towards the end but it will be an ongoing issue. I hope I did it justice.
> 
> Also, I intend this to be a three part series (the second is already written and I am working on the third) so this one ends on a downer. Said downer is addressed and resolved in the second part which is why I made sure that one was done before I posted. 
> 
> Please enjoy!

The good thing, Castiel decided, about the Earth’s incessant need to shift seasons all the damn time was that when it warmed it was a lot easier to smoke without freezing his hands. He leaned back against the peeling paint of the art gallery’s doorway and puffed out the smoke into sad approximations of rings and watched as they circled around the early spring sun. He squinted at the sphere of sickly yellow light, filtered through the overcast sky, thinking about the way the sun could not decide whether to stay hot, like in the summer, or cold, like in the winter. Castiel took another drag from his joint and felt that no, it was not the fact that it shifted from hot to cold that bothered him so much, but that it did not stay as one or the other. The worst was when it was both hot _and_ cold, with the way the light warmed his skin but the wind gave him a chill, leaving a redness on his cheeks and dryness in his lips. The worst was when it could not make up its mind. The worst was when it just could not _decide._

Then again, Castiel thought, absently running his hand over the outline of the pill bottle in the pocket of his trench coat, look where making a decision left him. Perhaps he should not judge the sun so harshly for constantly shifting.

The first drug he ever tried was a lot harder than a joint or little white pill. He was walking through the back alleys of the city, the kind which were shadowed by the tall skyscrapers overhead. A large man approached him, holding a bag with a odd substance inside. _Life got you down? Don’t worry this will make you fly!_

It had been so long since he felt the sensations of flight or beheld the sight of God’s plan unfolding before him. He allowed the man to talk him into it and he paid what he knew now to be an exorbitant amount. It was before he knew the value of money, before the dredge and muck of life took the wonder out of him. He returned to the motel and used the substance as he was taught, the needle pricking the skin.

It was not quite like _flying_ , per se, but it was the closest he ever found himself since his Fall. Sitting on the dirt encrusted carpet of the room, he could _see_ again. He saw the colours he missed, watched them float by and wrap around him. At the time, he was certain he witnessed a miracle. He had returned many times to the same alley, the man taking his money and giving him the substance. However, each time he needed a little more, the sensations a little less intense. He spent a few months chasing that first high, often lying on the carpet and staring as the light swirled overhead, unable to shake his lethargy long enough to pull the covers back and climb into bed.

After weeks of unpaid bills and IOUs the motel manager, a surprisingly temperate ex-con up until that point, came into his room with a gun demanding payment. It took an embarrassing amount of effort to disarm the manager, his reflexes slowed by the drugs, but he managed to flee. After a few months on the street, Castiel found himself in trouble again and needed to leave the city. When he did, he left the needle behind, obtaining instead a podunk town whose only claim to fame was a pathetic art gallery and a run-down dive bar.    

No more needles. Now it was just smokes for the little shakes and pills the the big ones. He found he no longer needed them as much and he was not sure if it was because the anxiety left him or that he did not care enough to feel nervous anymore. Still, the joints gave his hands something to do and convinced him to eat on occasion, a habit he had a difficulty keeping up with sometimes. Besides, pretty much everyone at the gallery smoked and who would not want to fit in with those freaks.

Castiel managed to peel himself off the door before Don opened it, his big body blotting out the light of the doorway. Don was a friend, if a friend meant a coworker he occasionally exchanged a word with and sometimes brought back to his shoddy motel room when they had too much to drink. Don gave Castiel a nod and stood beside him, lighting up his own joint. That was one of the good things about Don: he rarely talked more than needed.  

Unfortunately, Don’s arrival marked the end of Castiel’s break. He sighed and rolled his shoulders before dousing the embers of his half-finished joint. Little burns marred his fingertips from before he learned how to properly pinch it, a reminder how fragile and breakable he was as a human. A human who needed money to survive. The gallery paid crap and his paintings fetched even less, but it allowed him to pay for his room and the occasional can of subsistence. It was better than being homeless, at least.  

So he went back into the building, wore his stupid name tag, cleaned the toilets, and dusted frames. He said polite words to the other employees, and went for drinks in the evenings in order to practice his human smile. He listened to complaints about services, the content, about how modern art is garbage. He endured it all until he returned to the motel on the outskirts of town and entered his room.  

From wall to wall, every available surface was covered in paintings, drawings, and half-finished writings on crumpled pieces of paper. The motel manager, this time a friendly older woman with thinning white hair pulled back into a severe bun, overlooked Castiel’s habit of spilling paint and making a mess in the delight that she had steady income from her single long term guest. She had cut him a deal and he never had to go far for weed and pills, since the town dealer stood behind the counter and wished him a good morning everyday.

Castiel gave little more than an eye roll to the half-formed projects around him, all an attempt to capture the colours he had known before his Fall. Many of them were starscapes, with swirling blue-violet lights acting as a poor representation of his former self, but most were varying shades of green. The majority of the works were unfinished, the few complete ones either sold for a small bundle of cash or displayed in the dark corner of the gallery. All of them, however, failed to capture his past just as he failed to capture it with a substance.

The paintings did not matter now, though, since Castiel was intent on rifling through the drawers of his imitation wood desk, covered in splotches of dried paint. A near complete rendering of a figure with green eyes cracked down the middle when it was caught in a slamming drawer but Castiel never even paused until he curled his fingers around a thick bundle hidden in an old sock. He counted the money he pulled out, a ghost of a genuine smile on his lips, so unused he almost stopped to wonder what it was doing there.

He had enough. Finally.

***

A week after it opened, Castiel stepped into the tattoo parlour and was greeted with the smell of fresh vinyl and antiseptic. The owner, Jenni, rushed to the counter looking to him more like an art piece than a human. He still remembered how wide her eyes opened when he showed her the elaborate piece he drew, a flowing near full body work of Enochian script which began as a banner of words on his hip to cross his chest and wrap around his shoulder to his back, where it flared out in the shape of wings. Every word and shape was meant to protect and hide, a more permanent solution to the charms and spells he had been using. Later on, he added an anti-demon possession sigil in the crook of his elbow, hiding the old track marks.

It took some convincing for Jenni to take the job; at first she thought it was too big to accept as her initial project. Eventually, Castiel persuaded her and they agreed he would pay her in increments, little bits and pieces of the tattoo added as he acquired the money. Considering the fact that he hardly ever saw any other clients in the shop, Castiel had a feeling he was keeping Jenni afloat.

A few years ago he may have felt a twinge of guilt when he plopped the bundle of bills on Jenni’s counter, right over the design she was shading on it, and announced his intention to complete the tattoo. Ever the professional, Jenni just pulled her long black hair into a bun and snapped on her gloves, but Castiel caught the wrinkle of her brow and slight hesitation before she did, probably thinking about the fate of her shop after completion. Castiel removed his coat and shirt and wondered if he should be concerned that he no longer seemed capable of empathy. Years ago he knew he cared. He cared so much he ended up here.

Over the past year-- at least he was pretty sure it was a year even though the human methods of measuring time often mystified him until he started having to show up for work shifts on time-- Jenni and Castiel had settled into a comfortable routine when he stretched out on her chair and let her do her work. They would laugh and bond over their shared experiences about living on the streets. Jenni told him she started to recover from her substance abuse problems through art and, when she managed to hold a steady job, she began to cover her skin with it, allowing the tattoos to become a map of her life. Castiel ended up telling her bits and pieces of his life, heavily edited of course, and a few months after their professional relationship began she closed the shop after his session, pulled him into the backroom by his belt loops, and let him discover the rest of her map with his hands. _Oh, this stuff helps with the pain,_ she claimed as she tasted the skin at his neck. _Just what the doctor ordered._

Jenni was the only one in town who knew anything substantial about him and he occasionally considered her an actual friend, so it felt odd to sit in silence after so much. “So, this is it?” he asked over the vibrations of the needle.

“Yup, this is it,” Jenni said, her voice lacking its usual warmth. He wanted to draw the warmth back out and allow her words to wrap around him, keeping the coldness within him at bay for as long as he remained in her company.

“What’s wrong?”

Castiel was unable to see her since he was on his chest, head pillowed by his arms, but he suspected her pause was for an inaudible sigh. It was a few seconds before he felt the familiar press of the tattoo gun again. “Don’t think I’m gonna stay here much longer.”

While he knew his heart was still intact, its incessant beating was evidence enough, he was pretty sure he was supposed to feel a pang of something and he wondered if it was broken. “You’re closing?”

“Yeah.” The word was quiet and he felt her massage her thumb into the sensitive skin at his hip.

“Good thing I got the money,” he mumbled, then, almost as an afterthought: “Sorry.”

“Well, Castiel, you get the honour of being my first and last client!” He felt her kiss the back of his neck before returning to her work.

After that, they settled into a companionate silence. Castiel buried his face further into his arms and allowed the sound of the machine and the constant prin picks of the needle lull him into a semi meditative state.

Many things about Castiel’s life dulled over the years-- his job, his emotions, his ability to care-- but something about Jenni’s work and the way her hands moved across his skin allowed him to feel again. Maybe it was the fact that the pain he endured became something beautiful in the end, a sentiment his former self would have enjoyed. Maybe it was just the physical sensation of touch, something he only really found in quick heated bursts, which allowed him to close his eyes and relax. He never noticed how much his body missed it until it happened again. It took a long time for him to scrounge up the last bit of money to complete the tattoo and he counted back, realizing it had been over a month since he was last here, since he was last touched. The pang in his heart was late but welcome. It was not broken, just a little dull around the edges.

All too soon, Castiel felt Jenni massage over the new raised lines on his shoulders, lingering before she wiped him clean and taped a bandage over the fresh ink. Castiel did not move as he listened to Jenni dismantle her workstation, disposing of some items and setting others aside to be cleaned. She walked the length of her shop, turning off lights and drawing curtains over the windows. Her hands returned to him, stipped of the latex, and the two were quiet. The warmth of her hand seeped into his lower back as she stroked it back and forth across his skin.

“I’m going to miss you.” Jenni’s words were barely a whisper and Castiel was uncertain they were intended to be spoken aloud. Her fingers found their way just under the waistband of his jeans.

Propping up on his elbows, Castiel turned to see Jenni’s face. Her eyes were bright and hot, peering out of the shadows which surrounded her, a light that hinted at the soul underneath which he no longer had the power to see. He always envisioned it as a blazing fire, to match the passion within her he could draw to the surface with his hands and mouth. The vinyl squeaked when Castiel sat up and positioned himself across from her.

He said, “me too,” and found it to be true.  

Jenni reached out a hand to caress his cheek, his stubble scratching against her palm, and he leaned into the touch. He felt strangely raw and open under her stare, trying to figure out the meaning behind the fragile smile she wore. He wondered if her lips would crack if he tried to touch them.

“Maybe I’ll come by, before you leave,” he said.

There was flash behind her eyes to accompany her smile. “No. You won’t.”

She was not wrong. He never even saw her outside the studio. He decided to forgo talking, pulled her into a hard and desperate kiss, and pushed her back onto the chair until he was on top of her. Jenni gasped into his mouth and clutched him tighter, frantically wrapping her fingers around his belt buckle.

Castiel lost himself in the reassuring press of bodies, of skin against skin, refusing to think any further than the next few seconds. He surrounded himself with her warmth and, for a little while, left the world behind.

***

By the time Castiel stumbled back to the motel, the early rays of morning sunlight peered through the clouds. His skin buzzed pleasantly with the after effects of a new tattoo and good sex. Instead of dwelling on the inevitable loss of the pleasure, he leaned against the door of his room in a pool of sunlight, lighting up a smoke. He took a few lazy drags before resigning himself to the fact he was due at the gallery soon.

He did not feel the need to scowl at the paintings lining the walls when he entered his room, a sure sign of his better mood. Usually, if he was not distracted by something, he would feel the need to try and melt the paint with his eyes. He could have done that once. Instead, he fetched his other set of clothes, black slacks and a white button-down required for work, which were balled beside his desk where he left them the night before.

When he cinched his belt and noticed he had gone down to the last hole in the leather, he absently considered the last time he ate. One of the galley employees brought in doughnuts the last morning and he nibbled at one before his shift. Maybe he should try and have a proper meal at some point, though it did not matter much today. He spent the last of his money on the tattoo. At least the coffee in the breakroom was free.

The coffee pot broke halfway through the day just in time for Castiel’s headache from being awake for nearly two days to show itself. The old fluorescent lights in the building refused to stay on, flickering all day, aggravating the dull throb behind his eyes. Don acted weird, if weird could be gathered from a terse nod down in his direction rather than his usual upward tilt.

Later on, Castiel learned that someone had figured out where Don disappeared for three days a few months ago: Castiel’s room. Apparently, Don had not come out yet about his bedroom activities. Castiel did not care, he found it silly to divide sexuality though bounds of gender, but Don did, so the man was tersely nodding and making sure he was not in a room alone with Castiel. Which forced Castiel to make awkward agreement noises to Janice as she talked about her boyfriend troubles since Don did not talk to the other people in the gallery even when he should.

So, Castiel could be forgiven for being a little short when he found a man in a leather jacket straining over the rope barrier to run his fingers over the painting in the dark corner display. Castiel's painting.

Castiel gripped the man’s bicep and pulled him back from the wall. The man stumbled before tensing under his hand.

“The oils in your fingers can damage the work.” He was trying for friendly but it came out a growl. “That is why we have the barriers.”

While he may have wanted to melt the paint in his room, he did not want this one to be destroyed because it was up on the wall, sitting there with a chance of bringing him money.    

The stranger’s arm was taut under his hand, muscles coiled and ready to react to a threat. Castiel’s hand dug into smooth leather, and he forced himself to relax, removing his hand as the man turned to face him.

Too busy with the thought, _get away from there,_ Castiel never looked at the man’s face. When Castiel lifted his eyes to meet the other man’s, his hand hovered in midair, forgetting to complete the process of letting go. He found the colour. It was a green, one of the few gentle colours at the edges of his dreams and the one he tried to capture in his paintings, never quite finding the right hue. He spent so long chasing the colours, trying to find it though pills and needles, but they always evaded his grasp. Yet he found one, right here, hiding in the eyes of a stranger. He studied the colour, the subtle differences between dark and light, the little flecks of gold nearly hidden in the sea of green, the ring around the outside. He studied it, trying to commit the colour to memory.

The other man cleared his throat. “Uh, dude?” Oh. Castiel forgot the colour was attached to a person. “I got it: _don’t touch the painting._ ” The man growled out the last few words, lifting his hands and wiggling the fingers. Castiel stepped back in order to avoid the fingers tapping on his chest.

“My apologies,” Castiel said.

Neither man broke the stare.

Most of the time, Castiel gave little thought to his appearance. He knew he was attractive to some in a rumpled, just rolled out of bed way. However, when the stranger looked at him, he was acutely aware of his disheveled hair, baggy clothes, and world weary gaze. He did not remember the last time he shaved and he knew he smelled of stale sex and marijuana. It was not important what he looked like, but the eyes of the stranger made aware of himself in a way he had not for a long time.       

“Don’t be sorry, man. It’s just--” he broke the stare to return to the painting, standing as close as he could without touching the barrier. “It was like I could _feel_ it, you know?” The man gave Castiel a sheepish glance, a hand running through his hair. “Which is stupid because I know, like, nothing about this stuff.”   

Castiel stood beside the man, the edge of their shoulders just barely touching. The man did not seem to mind the minimal contact. “It’s not stupid. It’s the stars. Ursa Major, Ursa Minor, Draco, Orion. The human soul is always trying to reach out to it.” The green was the wrong shade, he knew that now, but it was curling around the stars, filling the empty spaces in between. “Always trying to capture God’s infinite creation even though they never will. But they try.” Castiel stroked his chin, aware if those eyes on him again. “It is… admirable.” At least, he thought that when he painted it.

“What are you? Some kinda nerd art historian?” The man’s grin was warm and teasing.

Castiel found himself returning the grin, hoping his face would not crack at the unfamiliar expression. “No.” He nodded towards the display. “I painted it.”

“Really?” The question was incredulous. The man looked back at the work, letting out a low whistle, before making eye contact again. “I like it. It’s good.” His eyebrows shot up and he shook his head, taken aback by his own admission.

“But it’s wrong,” Castiel whispered when the eyes returned to him, giving him another chance to study the green.

He only chose to display this particular work because Don pointed at it and said _good._ If it could elicit a single word from Don, it was probably something other people would consider remarkable. Castiel was not a good judge of his art, since he spent most of his time wanting to set fire to the lot of them. Then again, Don was probably talking about the sex.

“Whatever, dude.” The man reached out a hand. “I’m Dean, by the way.”

Castiel squinted at the hand, unsure of what to do with it. Dean lifted his eyebrows and jerked his arm up and down. _Come on._ Oh, right, he remembered how this worked.

“Hello, Dean,” he said, taking the hand in his own. Dean’s fingers were rough and calloused and his hand was warm and strong. “My name is Castiel.”     


	2. Chapter 2

The fact that Castiel had no money never stopped him from taking what he needed. The art gallery had a cold concrete basement which acted as storage for the art not on display, but it was also full of half used paints and blank canvases. Low-level employees were not supposed to enter the room but it was a convenient place to light up when temperatures went below freezing. At least it was after the lock was picked with a hairpin Castiel kept in his pocket. Thus, he knew where to find paints and brushes and, when the rest of the employees began to filter out of the building, he stuffed as many items he could fit into the hidden pockets of his trenchcoat. He considered taking a canvas with him but he figured a suspiciously square object bulging under his coat would be too obvious, even for him.

He managed to slip back upstairs without attracting attention and, almost as an afterthought,  circled back around to the breakroom. From a box labeled in neat block letters, _JANICE DO NOT TOUCH,_ Castiel grabbed a couple cereal bars and shoved them into the last empty space in his pockets.  

Someone saw fit to grant Castiel with a key, which was far more responsibility than he was comfortable accepting, but it did come with a few extra cents an hour. He locked up since he was the last person to leave. The sky was full of clouds and the moon decided to hide, so he had to feel his way through his route with only the embers at the end of a joint as a light source. He did not want to waste his rapidly dwindling supply of lighter fluid on something as needless as sight.    

Castiel deposited the supplies on the only empty corner of his bed and rifled through the piles of unfinished paintings. He selected one with with demonic black tendrils sliding across the white expanse that he did not remember drawing. Maybe it was a result of the time he woke up in a puddle of his own vomit, jerked awake by yet another nightmare. That night marked the time the pills no longer erased his dreams. Not that that really mattered, since he barely ever slept anymore.     

Sitting on the floor with his back against the bedframe, Castiel propped the canvas against his knees and carefully whited out the black with paint, meticulously filling in the edges for an even finish. Then, after waiting for the paint to dry for what felt like an hour but was likely only a minute, Castiel sought the colour.

The paints he stole were all the greens he could find and he laid each one out, dark to light, in a line beside him. He started with black, a circle directly in the centre, then ran each shade of green around it, overlapping the colours as he went until he reached the edges. He shaded, he blended, he peered at each part of the eye, trying to discern which combination was the correct one.

His lower back twinged from the effort of leaning over the canvas and his shoulder blades itched due to the healing tattoo. While he knew he should stand up, stretch, and clean himself up, he was never good at doing what he should. Instead, the green swirled before him as he added colour and searched for the right blend and he felt his eyes lose their focus, lost in the sea of green.

He was falling into it, falling like he did in dreams, and he tried to embrace it, to grip it with his arms and keep its warmth to himself. The green slipped through his arms as it always did, leaving him empty and cold. He watched it float away, up to the heavens, and he stretched out his arms in a silent plea for it to take him, too. It did not hear him. It never did. The black took him then, it always took him, working its way from his feet to trap him against the floor. The tendrils wrapped around his body, suffocating and freezing, all the way up to his outstretched fingers. The last thing it took was his eyes, so he could watch the last of the green fade away and see the way the black corrupted him, a dark spot on the face of creation. He did not have a mouth to scream.

The sound of the canvas hitting the night table jerked him awake with a racing heart and tensed muscles. It may have cracked or marred the paint somehow, but that did not matter. It was wrong anyway.

He brought his knees to his chest, lying perpendicular to his bed on the floor, willing his breathing to even and his heart to slow. Judging by the rays of sunlight peering through the blinds, it was almost evening. Good thing the gallery was not open on Sundays. Reaching a hand into the open drawer above his head, Castiel grasped two white pills and shoved them into his mouth, swallowing them dry. He closed his eyes, waiting for the way the pills dulled the edges of his nerves, made them bearable, before he peeled himself off of the floor and into the bathroom.

The image in the mirror showed him a man who definitely looked like he spent the night on the floor of a cheap motel, but he paid it no mind. Castiel unbuttoned his shirt and carefully peeled away the bandage covering his tattoo which had already begun to scab over. He had been lax on the aftercare, a careless thing to do when he would have nowhere to go for touch-ups. A broken line could let the other angels find him, though he had to wonder if he cared about that anymore. Still, it seemed a waste of Jenni’s good work to let it rot, so he turned on the shower and made sure he took care of the healing skin properly. He stood in the shower even after he finished washing his body clean, finding that the hot water soothed the raw nerves the pills had not already dulled.  

Afterwards, he decided to continue with his sudden momentum and filled the sink with warm water. While he did not have any soap made specifically for clothes-- there were so many different kinds of soap and he chose the wrong one every time-- Castiel scrubbed his two shirts, two pairs of pants, socks and boxers in a slow rhythm, giving each piece careful attention before draping them over the shower bar to dry. He even wiped down the lining of his coat in an attempt to remove some of the sweat.

Naked, he padded out of the bathroom and settled on his bed, the papers and canvases rustling and crashing against the floor as he lifted the bedspread to slide underneath. He reached into the night table drawer again and pulled out a baggie full of herbs along with the complementary Bible.

The first time he ripped out a page in order to roll, he looked around with each tear, half expecting one of his brothers to show up and smite him for his blasphemy. No one appeared-- of course they did not-- and he used the first page, watching in morbid fascination as _let there be light_ fell to ashes in his lap. Rolling the paper between his fingers in a practiced, methodological fashion relaxed him and he tore the pages without hesitation, a small bubble of satisfaction forming at the sound. Eventually, he had a sizable collection of perfectly sized joints to replace his depleted resource, though the bag was empty when he was done. He would have to ration what was left until payday. He had been smoking a lot more than he realized in the past few days.

In light of that revelation, he put a fresh one to his lips, coaxing his lighter into a flame. The lighter made a hollow sound as the last vestiges of fluid sloshed around inside when he placed it on the table.

He leaned his head back and listened to what was happening outside: cars rushed by on the highway, stray cats hissed at each other, and a man was talking to someone called ‘sir.’ It was still too quiet for him. It was always too quiet. He spent the last countless billion years with the constant hum of his brothers’ and sisters’ voices, reminding him he was a part of a greater whole.

Greater whole. Right. Castiel rolled onto his stomach after dragging the last bit of smoke into his lungs, hugging the pillow to his chest. His room filled with the heady scent of marijuana but he knew that Mrs Miller, the manager, would not care, if she could even smell it anymore. Eyes heavy and bones seemingly gaining weight in the last few moments, Castiel fought valiantly against the lull of sleep. There was not enough light within to win, however, and he fell into blackness.     

***

Castiel awoke with a twisted feeling in his stomach from a dream he could not remember and he peered out his window to sunlight which looked suspiciously like something called ‘morning.’ He had seen plenty of mornings but he rarely woke up to one. So he dressed, his clothes stiff and slightly musty, and, after shoving his lighter, joint, and a cereal bar into his coat pocket, went outside to watch the sunrise.

The first thing he noticed was not the sun but the car. Its long black body was polished until it shined, reflecting the colours of the sunrise straight back into Castiel’s eyes. He squinted at the car, certain that he did not see it before. Any vehicle in the parking lot stood out amongst the emptiness and Castiel had completely missed this one. While it was possible he passed it, unaware of its presence under the cover of night, the car seemed rather large and obvious now.

Castiel sat in the stoop of his doorway, eyeing the car and studying the way the light played off the windows and doors. As he stared, he idly chewed on the cereal bar which tasted exactly like he suspected the gravel at his feet would, if he felt the need to take a handful. He finished the bar anyway, which seemed the settle some of the churning in his stomach.  

A heavy weight jumping into his lap made him drop the lighter he was trying to bring to life. He wanted to growl at the black cat who settled herself comfortably over his legs but as soon as his hand stroked soft fur, he could not bring himself to complain.

“Hey, you,” Castiel said, keeping his voice low and gentle. He scratched her behind the ears as she purred. “I don’t have any food right now. I’m sorry.” If the cat understood, she did not complain. She stayed with him, content to feel his fingers in her fur.

He met the cat one night, after waking from a nightmare to a pained yowl. Opening the door, he saw the cat, mangled and emaciated. He took her inside and spent the next few days caring for her wounds and making sure she ate. Mrs Miller made him release the cat when she found the animal digging in the flowerpots by the entrance of the motel lobby but Castiel could not help it if the cat found its way to a container full of food by his door every so often.

There was a time when he could have spoken to her, learning her name and needs, but he had to settle on finding the right tone and touch to understand her. As a result, the two of them developed a form of silent communication. He fed her and nurtured her, while she remembered to come by and see him on occasion, as if she knew exactly when he needed her the most.                 

Listening to the animal’s purr removed the last lingering traces of his dream and he leaned back with his eyes closed, feeling the sun heat his face. He heard a door slam shut a short distance away, then the crunch of boots on gravel coming towards him. Instead of passing him by like most people, the boots stopped and lingered just to his right.

“If it isn’t Grumpy the Dwarf!”

Castiel peered towards the voice with one eye, making out a figure looming above him through the hazy glare of sunlight. Both eyes opened when he recognized the man who had the right colour. Dean did look tall from that angle, but it was only because Castiel was sitting down.

“I am not short.”  

It was difficult to view the man’s features thought the halo of yellow light crowning his head, but Castiel saw Dean turn his face to the road to take a deep breath before regarding Castiel again.

“No, no you’re not.” Dean slid down the wall to settle beside him. “Someone’s got a friend. He got a name?”

The cat was still in his lap, regarding Dean with wide eyes. “I don’t know. She hasn’t told me.”

Dean leaned his head against the doorframe and angled his body towards Castiel. His eyes searched Castiel’s face before he spoke again. “Maybe you should give her one, then.”

“Oh, I couldn’t do that. I don’t own her.” He looked down at the mess of fur and stroked her. “You’re the boss of yourself, aren’t you?”

The cat meowed in agreement. His fingers felt the healthy layer of fat over her ribs. She had done a much better job than him in taking care of herself.

Dean lowered his head to look at the cat, shaking his head with a small smile on his lips. “Alright, you win.” The cat meowed again and stretched her paw towards Dean’s thigh, who jerked back from the touch. “Uh-uh, you stick with the hippie. I don’t wanna spend all day sneezing.” A dissatisfied sound came from the animal before she settled herself back down on Castiel.

Castiel resumed scratching until the cat’s head lay on his thigh and she purred again. The men sat in companionate silence for a few moments until Castiel looked up at Dean.

“Hippie?” he asked, his head tilted to the side.   

He watched as Dean’s lips twitched at the edges, eventually breaking into a wide grin. He threw his head back as he laughed, his eyes twinkling in a lovely shade of green. Castiel hoped he could remember how the light danced across Dean’s eyes later when he tried to paint. The light was still there when he met Castiel’s gaze. Dean opened his mouth, a half formed word playing across his tongue when he was interrupted by a song coming from his jacket. A rush of air escaped him instead of words and he gave Castiel a nod before standing and flipping open his phone.   

The conversation was not meant for Castiel, who could only hear a low tone and the occasional “yes sir.” The cat glared at Castiel when he reached for his lighter, leaving his lap and disappearing around the back of the motel after a long, languid stretch of her legs. Castiel busied himself trying to find a spark, the pad of his thumb growing raw with each failed _hiss_.

“Hey, Cas.” He turned to the voice and saw a flame before him. Dean held out a lighter made of sleek grey metal, much higher quality than the plastic in his hand, and lit his smoke for him.

Castiel took a long drag, holding the smoke within him before releasing it with a contented breath. He almost managed to make a proper ring this time. “Thanks,” he said, holding the joint out to Dean in invitation.

Dean looked at his outstretched hand for so long that Castiel almost pulled it back before it was taken. Dean’s first try ended in a cough but the second was more successful, his lips wrapping around the joint in a way that made Castiel want to watch him do it more often. Their fingers brushed when he returned it.

Dean's eyes were a little glassy when he smiled at Castiel and said, “It’s been a while, I guess.” A small laugh escaped his throat.

Castiel smiled at him, taking another drag and imagined he could taste the saliva left behind. “Better?”

“Is what better?”

“I don’t know; whatever that was. It didn’t sound like a happy conversation.”

Dean sighed and tilted his face towards the sun with his eyes closed. “Nah. It wasn’t.” He accepted the offered joint again, pausing a while to inhale the smoke. “Looks like I’m stuck here for a while.”

Taking one last drag before returning the half-burned joint to his pocket, Castiel studied Dean’s profile, his partially closed eyelids. His eyelashes seemed to catch the sun rays between them, not letting it fall further to the ground.

“My condolences.”

Dean’s chuckle reminded Castiel of the sound of a summer stream, warm and natural. “I’ve been to worse places.” His shoulders sagged and he slid down the building a little more, his eyes closed shut.

While he would have been happy to spend the rest of the day sitting beside Dean, Castiel saw the sun move further overhead and had to face the crushing reality that it was Monday. He touched Dean on the shoulder, who jerked at the contact so violently he hit the back of his head against the wall. Dean blinked at Castiel who squatted next to him with his hand in the air, fingers still curled despite no longer holding a shoulder. The tips of Dean’s ears turned red as he rubbed the back of his neck. Dean freckles stood out when he flushed.    

“I’m sorry,” Castiel said. “I have to go. You should try and rest.”

The bleary eyed gaze of the man before him betrayed the dark circles under his eyes. Castiel helped him to his feet.

“Naw, s’alright. This stuff always does that.” Regardless of Dean’s words, Castiel made sure Dean was returned to the door of his own room, keeping his hand at his elbow.

Keys jingling in his hand and standing before the door, Dean stared at Castiel without moving or saying a word. Castiel inclined his head, waiting, until he realized he should say something.

“How long are you staying?”

Dean started before his answer: “‘til the end of the month, at least.”

“End of the--” Castiel stopped, counting the days.

He was paid last week, so he had another week to go before his cheque. However, if he remembered correctly, the end of the month was at the end of this week. Which meant that he had to pay for his room. With money he no longer had.

A shadow must have crossed Castiel’s face because Dean gave him a questioning look. “What’s up?”

“It’s nothing.” Castiel tried to give a reassuring smile though he was uncertain if it reached his eyes. “Just hoping my painting will sell soon. I’ll see you around.”

Pulling his coat tight across his body, Castiel made his way across the parking lot without looking back. It took some time before he heard the door close behind him.

***

As it turned out, Castiel’s painting did sell. It happened in mid afternoon, sometime between Janice not showing up for her shift and Don walking in an hour and a half late, looking like he spent a drunken night in the forest. Either way, Castiel was too busy doing the job of three people to see who bought the art. He was curious to see who was crazy enough to want it.

Even though most people would have to wait for payday to receive the money, Castiel walked out with a wad of cash. He gave his best smile to the manager while brushing his fingers across her palm from the other side of the counter, speaking to her in a quiet, earnest tone. So, _just this once_ \-- though it had already happened before-- Castiel received advance payment. The money was quickly converted into his rent for the month, marijuana, and a small bag of cat food which he poured into a margarine container-- once full of homemade cookies he swiped from the break room-- and left it outside his door.      

The car was not in the parking lot. It was not there when he arrived nor was it there when he put out the food. Castiel glared at the empty spot, a vague approximation of disappointment poking at his ribs. He attempted to chase away the feeling with a smoke but he forgot to purchase a new lighter. The plastic one lay forgotten on the ground that morning and was useless even if he could find it again.

Castiel glared at the passing cars-- none of which were _the_ car-- and debated his options. There was a gas station about a mile down the road he could reach by walking but, due to an incident, he was not welcome there. Maybe if he showed he had money this time they would let him in. He figured taking a walk was a better option than trying to examine the strange feeling in his heart. Walking would keep him busy, at least.

He walked. He looked. He saw the blue sky. He observed the green grass. He did not think about the long buried feelings in his chest digging their way out into the open or about how his hands shook, searching for a cure he could not find. He beat them down, hitting them with a hammer until they were dull and placid. He just walked. He placed one foot in front of the other-- left, right, left, right. He marched like he was still a soldier. He was on a mission. He reached his destination.

The odd thing about human emotions was, despite the fact he shrouded them smoke and pushed them down until they were flat and bloody, they managed to be resilient things that swelled at the slightest provocation. Emotions would revive themselves, standing tall as if they were never broken, if they saw something small and simple.

The car was parked by one of the pumps. It made logical sense. Cars needed gas and this was the only station close to the town. What was not logical was the surge in Castiel’s chest when he noticed the man bent low, inserting the nozzle into his car with his head bowed in concentration. He only knew the man for three days. Castiel stood behind Dean, allowing him to finish his task before saying anything.

When Dean turned around, he collided against the car’s bumper, one hand on his chest and the other reaching behind him. He took a deep, shuddering breath before speaking. “Dude, make some noise when you walk up behind someone!”

While his pose relaxed and his hands returned to his side, the tension in his body was still apparent. Out of the corner of his eye, Dean inspected the bumper’s metal and gently wiped it with his sleeve when he found something out of place.  

Castiel considered Dean with narrowed eyes, his head drifting to the side as he tried to formulate a response to the comment. Any thoughts he had were forgotten when the glass door of the gas station was nearly wrenched out of its frame. He was unsure how the owner managed to slam it closed, since Castiel believed doors intended for commercial use were designed to stop that possibility. Both men by the car snapped their heads towards the noise.

The gas station owner was red faced and square shouldered, blocking the doorway with a widespread stance. He did not say a word to Castiel, just stared him down with a look in his eyes that was reminiscent of an angel burning with the force of heaven barely contained in material form.

Castiel patted down his pockets and pulled out a ten-dollar bill, holding it up to his face. “I have money.” He shook the bill for emphasis, his other hand splayed wide to show he was unarmed.

If the owner were an angel, Castiel would have died from the flash behind his gaze and outstretched finger singling him out. His head jerked around wildly-- Castiel was not sure he could consider it a headshake since it was such a unrestrained movement-- before retreating back into the building, keeping Castiel in sight though the window. Castiel did not know human gazes could burn so intensely without the accompanying fire.

Then again, Castiel thought as he met Dean’s eyes, there were other ways a human’s gaze could burn. Dean cocked an eyebrow, his mouth slightly parted as he waved a hand in the air in a vague pointing gesture towards the door. Then, he shook his head, a low chuckle in his throat. If the owner’s eyes brought the fury of an angel, burning with the fire of righteousness, Dean’s look was more like a rich, dark shot of whiskey which started hot but settled in Castiel’s core, warm and filling.

“You know, I don’t think I wanna go in there anymore,” Dean said.

“I wouldn’t worry. He’s much more accommodating to those who pay for their items,” Castiel replied, scratching his chin. He really needed to shave.  “And don’t leave a mess behind them.”

It was not Castiel's fault ghosts had a habit of breaking down windows to blow away salt lines. He also could not help the daughter’s broken leg. Angry spirits flinged just about anyone they could reach. Besides, he saved her life and he only took a few things because, at the time, he did not have a job.

After replacing the nozzle on the pump cradle, Dean chanced a look at the fuming owner. He waved at the narrow eyed stare that met him. “Well, I’m already full. Guess I have to now.”

“If you happen to find a lighter, I’d pay you back.” It was worth a shot, at least.

Dean straightened his coat and flashed a grin before entering the shop. “Wish me luck!”  

Castiel shook his head, an amused sound clicking off his tongue. Somehow, the owner kept one eye on him while watching Dean. Castiel wondered if it hurt him to keep his eyes separated like that since, when he tried it himself, he only ended up seeing two cars instead of one. He walked to the driver’s side and peered into the window. A messy stack of manila folders spread across the passenger’s seat and Castiel caught a whiff of leather and gunsmoke, covered by artificial pine.

Dean was a strange man. He never gave a last name, nor asked for one. He wandered into a gallery full of items he knew nothing about. His eyes were the right shade of green: warm, kind, gentle. He drove into town in a loud and notable car, stopping in a run-down motel in the middle of nowhere. He smelled like leather and gunpowder and whiskey. He accepted Castiel easily, speaking to him as if they had known each other for years. Perhaps they recognized each other as drifters, as people who saw more of the world than most. It was only logical, a truth that Castiel should have recognized right away.

Dean was a hunter.

“She’s a beaut, ain’t she?” Dean was at Castiel’s side again, patting the roof of the car with a soft look in his eyes. He reached out his other hand to pass Castiel something closed in his fist. “Sorry about the… well, it’s all they got. I figured you wouldn’t care.”

He dropped the lighter into Castiel’s outstretched palm. Castiel was about to use it when the design caught his eye. Amongst the white backdrop, a portrait of a woman crouched over a baby was painted. The woman depicted was how the humans believed the Virgin Mary looked, though Castiel knew she was a lot younger and wore much less blue. He ran his thumb over the picture, staring at it in silence until something burst within him.

He laughed: full bodied, shoulder heaving, head thrown back, eye watering laughter. Castiel flattened his hand against the car door to remain standing; his other arm curled around his stomach to hold him together. Sometimes humanity made the strangest things.

Dean’s hands were at Castiel’s shoulders, his face unable to settle on mirth or concern. “Dude, just how high _are you_?”   

Just managing to keep the laughter under control, Castiel wiped his eyes and set the lighter aflame. “Not nearly enough.” Finally, he was able to smoke again. He took in a deep breath of smoke, releasing it along with the last vestiges of amusement, allowing his body to settle on its own two feet again.

If Dean was going to make a reply, it was swallowed by sirens. A fleet of emergency vehicles rocketed past on the highway, headed to somewhere in town. Dean whipped around, his body full of sudden urgency as he saw them disappear around the curve.   

“Sorry, Cas, gotta go.” Dean opened the car door, forcing Castiel to step out of his way and the car rumbled after the path of the sirens.

A hunter was in town, which meant that something Castiel had missed was happening. He had made an effort to miss things, in an attempt to keep his heart closed off from the emotions of others. Sometimes it worried him, but usually a smoke or pill chased that feeling away.

His feet took him down in the direction of the town, rather than back to his room. He did recognize the signs of a haunting, or something else, when he looked for them, even if his experiences in fighting monsters were nothing to look back on in pride. It took him too long to learn how to fight without the power of heaven at his fingertips. The incident at the gas station was probably one of his better moments, which said all it needed about his hunting abilities. Still, he felt the need to see what was happening. It was not like there was much else to do today.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Cas overdoses at the end of the chapter. He recovers in the next chapter.

The commotion had died down by the time Castiel reached the area cordoned off with police tape. At time like these, he really missed his wings. He stood at the edge of the treeline behind the art gallery, a hole dug out of the earth. Only a few stragglers remained in the twilight and he joined them at the edges of the tape, the sight before him already stripped of evidence. 

“Castiel?” The name came from behind him. He turned to see the manager from the gallery, her red hair bright against the darkening sky. “It was, uh--” She paused to run a hand through her hair, blinking rapidly and keeping her eyes above Castiel’s head, as if she were fascinated by the sky. “They found Janice. She was--” Her posture did not change but she stopped speaking. Castiel waited. “A-anyway. We won’t be open for a while. We’ll, um, find a way to contact you.” She still looked at the sky, the scant light unable to hide the wetness at the corners of her eyes. “You really could use a phone.” The words came out breathless and tight, clipped at the end in an attempt to keep the sob from passing her lips. 

She was in pain. He was unsure as it what made him do it, but at one moment she was standing there in an attempt to remain composed, the next her face was pressed into Castiel’s neck, their arms around each other. She smelled like lilac perfume. He listened as her breathing calmed, and he looked into the art building’s shadows to see if they knew her name.

The manager pushed away from Castiel, stopping to tug at the lapel of his coat until it was straightened. He did not see any tears but she did wipe her eyes before studying his chin.

“I’m sorry. I just saw them take her out of here. Her chest was, was  _ open. _ ” She took a deep breath. The last word was so quiet, Castiel had to strain to hear her. “Bloody.” Her eyes squeezed shut for a moment before she looked into Castiel’s own for the first time, a smile plastered on her lips. “Anyway! I gotta go make some calls.” The false cheer did not seem to help her, as she nearly tripped over a man on her way back to the main road.  

Emotions curled their sucking tendrils around Castiel’s heart, feeding off the lingering traces of the many people who crossed the area. The nerves in his body were agitated, rubbed raw by humanity. He could not dull them. It would be foolish to light up here, with so many cops. He would need to be back in his room, cut off from the claws digging into him, in order to hide himself again in a chemical haze. 

It was so much easier when he did not feel anything, but the last few days have allowed his emotions to perk up in response to another’s presence and they were proving much harder to push down again. His hands shook in want but he did not have the ability to give them what they craved, even though he knew it was something else, something unnamable, that they needed.  

Most of the stragglers left for their beds by the time Castiel headed for the trees. The single guard did not notice him circle back around so he could be closer to the crime scene just at the edge of the treeline, his body hidden in the bushes. 

The hole was shallow. Someone must have caught a glimpse of hair or flesh and investigated. He did his best not to think of the person who did so, how their horror would be twice as painful as the manager’s grief. The hole was carefully excavated by the forensic team but Castiel could see the claw marks at the edges, the owner of which must have hurriedly pulled aside the soil to hide the body. 

The body with the open chest, bloody and glassy eyed in death. He did not think about the body in life, the way her laugh grated at every nerve or how she refused to stop punching him in the shoulder when she made a joke he did not understand. No, all that mattered was that the body’s chest was opened, which led him to look to the sky. The moon was full. 

Castiel did carry a blade, though he could not be sure it counted as silver. It was one of the few possessions he kept after his stint of homelessness, the rest of it sold for more drugs. He had it for so long, leaving his room without it was akin to pantslessness. Regardless, he never had occasion to use it on a werewolf. It would be an interesting experiment, if nothing else.   

Slipping away undetected by the last few people, Castiel decided to head to the main road, following it until he swerved into the back alleys near the bar. He was in the ‘bad’ part of town, just a few steps from what was ‘good,’ as one of his coworkers had said one night they went for drinks after work. Castiel did not really see the difference. Either way, the place behind the bar was a secluded home to cracked asphalt and a dumpster, highlighted by a old yellow spotlight placed over the bar’s back door where the faint strains of canned music could be heard. It was the perfect spot for a predator to wait for a poor soul, too drunk to react to the fast movements of a werewolf.    

That is, it would be the perfect spot to wait if it was not for the fact that someone-- two someones-- were already there. Castiel stopped his advance. It is not that he was surprised to see Dean, gun in one hand with the other lifted to protect his face from the advancing werewolf, it was that it was so soon. Or maybe it was that it took Castiel so long to reach this point. 

He hid in the shadows behind the werewolf, formulating a strategy, when the beast lunged at Dean and knocked him down. The pool of light caused the rivulets of blood on Dean’s forearm to glimmer, which made Castiel curse his hesitation. 

When Castiel pulled out his blade, he almost thought he saw the light of heaven gleam across it. While it was still a powerful weapon, there was no way it was full of holy power anymore. Instead of dwelling on the illusion, Castiel whistled a single, shrill note, drawing the werewolf’s attention away from Dean and to himself. He stepped out of his hiding place, giving the werewolf a clear trajectory toward him.     

Which was exactly what the monster did. All he really wanted was Dean safe, so his plan worked, though he was left to deal with the mass of fur and murderous claws barreling for him. Castiel may have a difficult time finding his body’s balance without heaven’s power anymore but he still knew how to fight, even if his muscles were no longer accustomed to that sort of movement. 

Castiel dropped into a defensive crouch, keeping a steady gaze on his advancing opponent. When it was close to him, so close he could feel the edges of its fur and hot, humid breath, he stepped aside in one smooth movement, slashing his blade across its chest. 

The werewolf yelped and skidded until it faced Castiel’s again. Its eyes looked almost betrayed and Castiel thought he recognized the colour. The red line he carved into its chest did not burn. So, the blade did not count as proper silver. Good to know. He had no time to dwell, however, since the beast snarled and leapt towards him.

“Down, Cas!”  

Castiel obeyed on instinct, dropped to his stomach and rolled out of the werewolf’s path. He felt the gunshot more than heard it, drowned out by the werewolf’s pained howls. The sounds became more human until they faded into a gurgle of someone choking on their own blood.

Dean was at his side, pulling him to his feet, but Castiel’s eyes fell on the now human figure before him. He knew that body. 

Castiel knelt beside Don, rested his head in his lap, and ran his hand through the man’s matted hair in an attempt to quell some of the terror in his eyes. Even though he was aware of Dean’s presence behind him, Castiel paid him little note other than a quick nod of thanks when he draped his flannel shirt over Don’s naked body. Castiel focused on keeping his eyes on Don, filling them with as much comfort and consolation as he could, even when he wanted to run, to scream, to be anywhere but right beside a dying man. He made himself watch as Don’s eyes began to lose focus, as he jerked his head back and coughed up blood. When Castiel moved to wipe Don’s mouth, a glint of gold around his neck made him pause. 

Don wore a cross. Castiel had forgotten about it. It barely even registered when they were chest to chest in his motel room, other than a quick gasp at the cold, quickly rectified by their body heat. Now, it seemed important. 

“Catholic?” Castiel wondered aloud.

Don made a choked sound and twitched his head in what could have been a nod. 

Castiel put his hand to Don’s forehead and started to murmur: “O holy hosts above…” 

He knew the words in multiple languages. They were engraved into his brain; perhaps it was part of an angel’s programming. He hoped it did not count as a direct prayer but his safety did not seem as important as helping a man whose eyes dimmed with every second.

As soon as he completed the prayer, Don’s eyes rolled back into his head and he hitched his last breath. He could almost hear a  _ thanks  _ on the exhale. Castiel lowered Don’s eyelids, his hands shaking with the effort, and thought he saw peace in the lines of the body’s mouth. He hoped it was not just wishful thinking.

Castiel stared at the body and wondered how long he had been a werewolf. Trying to think back, look for signs retroactively, Castiel only saw faces through a blurry filter of green and white. It could not have been that long, since the only other body was the woman, at least as far as Castiel knew. He had apparently been missing a lot during his efforts to close off from humanity. Closed off just in time for two people to die. Tendrils writhed inside him, wrapping around his heart until it was covered in darkness, and squeezed him until he trembled.

He almost slapped the hand off his shoulder, mistaking the fingers for more tendrils, until he saw Dean with a deep line between his brows and soft eyes. “We have to go.” 

Of course they did. The noise should have been muffled by the sounds in the bar and he hoped most people were at home, secure in their beds, but someone was likely to investigate a gunshot. Dean knelt by the body and Castiel helped him lift the weight, even as his skin felt like it was attempting to extricate itself from him, to save itself from having to feel the chill of the dead body’s ankles.  

By the time Dean led him back to the car, it begun to rain, making their next task even more miserable. Dean grabbed supplies from the trunk and wrapped the body in a blue and pink sheet. Castiel led him to a secluded clearing, one he knew was rarely frequented by anyone other than himself. He doubted he would ever come back. By the time they arrived, the ground was slick with mud that squelched under their shoes and was heavy in their shovels. They worked at a steady pace, opening a shallow but serviceable grave, as they fought against the mud clinging to their clothes.  

The sheet was soaked in rainwater. Castiel saw the outline of a nose, the swell of a mouth, the curve of legs and arms. The men hefted the body into the makeshift grave. The  _ thwump  _ as it hit the mud should have been lost in the rain but the sound echoed in Castiel’s head, bouncing between the tiny spaces in his brain matter until it was all he heard. Dean poured salt and lighter fluid on the body and fought to coax a spark from his sodden matches.

If he could still see souls, Castiel believed Don’s would have been beige. A simple, nondescript brown that blended into everything. It changed shade, he thought, when Don was spread across Castiel’s bed, darkening along with his lust. He figured it would have been lighter when Don was high, almost giddy enough to say a word. Beige was not a remarkable colour but it was needed to make up the world. It did not deserve to be washed away in blood as a result of negligence.   

Dean unfurled a tarp and Castiel assisted him in holding it above the grave. With one hand, Dean lit a match and Castiel watched as the body burned. The sheet curled around the face, its lips peeled away with the heat, open in a silent scream. Castiel wanted to look away, he wanted to turn his head to the sky and watch the rain like Dean, but his eyes stayed trained on the burning corpse, watching as the skin melted away. The arid smell of burning flesh seared his nostrils and he thought he would never be able to smell anything else again. 

It took a long time for the body to burn and Castiel watched every second, eyes opened wide as he saw all traces of the body’s former humanity blacken into a husk. Eventually, Dean caught Castiel’s attention with a snap of the tarp, finally allowing Castiel to blink. They rolled the tarp back up and let the rain douse the flames. 

While they were packing the earth back into place to cover the burnt out husk, Castiel felt Dean’s searching looks, even though he refused to meet them. Dean had not tried to talk. He must have known Castiel had no desire to speak. However, it did not take much in the way of social aptitude to feel his curiosity. He likely thought Castiel was a hunter, which he was content to allow Dean to believe. It was less strange than the truth. 

They patted the earth flat with the base of their shovels and Castiel hoped the rain would hide the strange edges of brown amongst the newly green grass. Castiel declined Dean’s offer to drive him back to the motel. He wondered what was in his eyes that made Dean back off so easily but he did not care enough to find out. It did not matter, anyway.   

He needed to walk, needed to run, needed to chase away the tendrils that followed him, to dull the sharp edges and blacken them in a brutal blaze until they resembled a burning corpse, a husk. 

While alcohol was not his regular method of choice, he made a detour to pick some up with the last of his money. He left the bill on the counter of the darkened store. By the time he reached his room, half the bottle in the brown paper bag was empty and the rain eased up a tiny bit for the arrival of the sun. 

The door slammed shut behind him, cutting him off from the approaching dawn, and the blinds worked to blot out the rest of the light. Castiel did not bother to remove his wet clothes or even his shoes. He crashed, face down, on the mattress, his arms and legs spread to the corners and his limbs uncomfortably pressed against the hard edges of paintings. The only thing he had enough cognitive thought for was to set the the bottle on the night table, after spilling some of the liquid on the pillow. 

All he could smell was burning flesh. All he could hear was the dead weight of a body falling into a grave. All he could see was the blackened body, no longer human. 

Castiel felt blindly into the drawer beside the bed, popping a handful of the first pills he could find into his mouth, not caring what they were, and found oblivion.  


	4. Chapter 4

In the beginning God created the heavens and earth. In the beginning, there was darkness, leaving the earth formless and empty. In the beginning, darkness hovered over the surface of the deep. 

In the beginning, Castiel was an angel.

God saw that the light was good, and he separated the light from the darkness.

Castiel was left behind. He saw the light as it left him in the deep. The darkness held him down as he tried to reach after it. 

He was not meant for the light. 

Only his eyes were spared by the darkness. It was no mercy. The blackness around him was harsh, heavy, hopeless, and he deserved to see it and it only.

So, when the green flitted from above, Castiel tried to close his eyes. The darkness would not let him. The green wrapped around him, trying to dispel the darkness, and Castiel fought. He deserved to be here. He belonged with the darkness. The green would not let him go, filling him with gentle light. He felt cold but not empty as the light enveloped him.

***

“Cas. Cas!”

The first thing he noticed was the cold, then the slick surface beneath his bare back. His opened eyes were met with a chilling stream of frigid water. 

“Thank God.”

He laughed at that. How could he not? What does his Father have to do with any of this? Why would He even care?

He laughed until it was black. 

***

Castiel awoke to the sound of gentle snoring. Opening his eyes, he saw the dirty popcorn ceiling of his room, the sound coming from his left. He managed to turn his head to the noise, his neck stiff and unyielding at first. 

Dean was sprawled out on an armchair-- Castiel did not remember having an armchair-- beside the bed, with neat stacks of artwork and papers collected around his feet. The man looked  _ right _ against the backdrop of the myriad starscapes around the room, perhaps due to having the right colour, even though his closed eyes hid it.

Lit by the soft glow of the muted television-- apparently Castiel had a television as well, once the paintings were moved out of the way-- Dean’s face was untroubled. If he was dreaming, it was of something peaceful and Castiel figured that if one of them should sleep soundly, it should be Dean.    

He did not know how long he studied Dean’s profile, trying to make sure he remembered the curve of his nose so it could be brought to life in a picture, before the man drew a deep breath and blearily blinked at Castiel. Dean straightened his posture, smiling when he noticed Castiel’s open eyes. 

“Look who’s up,” Dean said, his voice still thick with sleep. 

Castiel hummed in acknowledgment, pulling himself up until his back rest against the headboard. His body creaked with the effort but he made it unassisted. When he looked down at himself, he noticed he wore a black t-shirt so faded it was nearly grey along with a pair of sweatpants. Okay, he  _ knew _ he did not have those before. 

“Your clothes were… Well, they were wet.” Dean provided an answer to Castiel’s unasked question. “And I couldn’t find anything else so...” He waved his hand towards Castiel, gesturing towards the clothes. “Enjoy.”    

The light in Dean’s eyes burned with a million questions but instead he answered the ones Castiel did not speak aloud. “The werewolf situation is taken care of. Well, here at least. Only took a couple helpless looks to get the cops to let up. Gallery’s still closed.”

Dean paused for a moment to lean forward and rest his elbows on his thighs, studying Castiel with an intense, searching gaze. His brows lowered and his eyes narrowed as he rested his chin in his hand, keeping eye contact with Castiel, who fought the urge to merge with the headboard so he could avoid being stripped bare under Dean’s scrutiny. 

Something Dean found must have satisfied him, since his face relaxed and he leaned back into the chair. “You know, I think I’m gonna have to start calling you Scruffy now.”

Castiel squinted at Dean until he could suss out the meaning, bringing his hand to his face. He felt a wiry, unkempt beard under the palm of his hand. While he often forgot to shave, Castiel usually caught it before it grew too long. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully, wondering how long it took him to gain so much hair.

“About three days.” Castiel seriously considered whether or not Dean had mind reading abilities while the other man twisted around to peer at the darkness outside. “I guess four now, technically.”    

Dean stared at him with the searching look again, the green dark and thoughtful. Maybe he saw into Castiel’s skull and looked at the thoughts tumbling around in his head. Perhaps Dean could make better sense of them than himself, though he feared the other man will find something too dark or, perhaps worse, just empty space.

Some of the mental fog from his long sleep cleared and he remembered why he was here, passed out in his bed. He tried not to remember the feelings along with the images. Castiel looked at Dean’s forearm, recalling trails of blood, and searched for the wound hidden by his shirt sleeve.  

“How’s your arm?” 

Dean’s eyebrows shot up. “Seriously? You wanna talk about me?” He rolled his eyes and sighed at Castiel’s insistent look, pushing up his sleeve and holding his arm up for Castiel’s inspection. “See, it’s fine.” The wound was nearly healed, only small tracks of raised red marred the skin, likely to be healed scar-free. Castiel found himself relieved by the news. “Well, at least I know he still speaks. You were a regular Chatty Cathy for a while there.”     

“I was?” Castiel asked the question carefully, one eyebrow raised until he realized Cathy meant him. There were a lot of incriminating things he could have said. 

“Yeah. Didn’t make much sense, though. A couple of ‘Father!’ and ‘God!’ and a bunch of stuff that wasn’t English.” Dean lowered his voice a few octaves when he imitated Castiel. He was not sure if he should be offended by that. 

Calling out to God was not uncommon among humans, so he figured he was safe from Dean figuring anything too important out, though he was regarding him with narrowed eyes once more. Castiel would just have to hope he did not call out any other names. If he did, they may have heard him. God certainly did not.  

Dean’s eyes were a heavy weight Castiel no longer hand the strength to hold. He faced the television and watched a woman present a container to cook and strain pasta for only 19.99. They named it after pasta even though the program dedicated much time to other types of food. Even suspended in water, the sight was appealing enough to elicit a low rumble from his stomach. 

“Food. Right!” The amusement was plain in Dean’s voice as he left the chair. He rifled in the mini fridge under the television and pulled out a plastic container. After heating it, he presented it to Castiel. “Chicken soup is good for the soul.” He grinned as held out a disposable spoon.

Harbouring serious doubts about the soul healing properties of a specific kind of soup, Castiel took the spoon. He watched the steam rise from the surface of the food before taking a few hesitant sips. His stomach only let him take a little broth, but he felt better after setting the container down. A warm, pleasant feeling settled into his core. The food may have had some effect, after all.   

Castiel knew the soup was not his own. He never had enough food to keep it in the fridge. He swept his eyes over the room, seeing the spaces Dean craved for himself: the chair, the television, the unfamiliar bags set under the desk. What he did not understand was  _ why. _ It was not that he did not appreciate Dean’s kindness nor his company but he did figure most people would not help a stranger like this. Especially a ‘hippie’ like himself. 

“Thank you?” It came out a question, though he had not meant it too. 

Judging by the way Dean peeled his eyes from the television to face Castiel, he heard the uncertainty in his voice.   

“You’re welcome.” Dean quirked an eyebrow. “I think?” 

Dean was teasing him again. He was starting to realize it was Dean’s primary form of communication. That and strange sayings that made Castiel regard him with a tilted head. Castiel looked down at the hands in his lap, laced them together, pulled them apart, then settled on folding them over each other across his stomach. 

He still stared at his hands when he whispered: “why?” 

A pause. A decidedly neutral tone. “Why what?

There was a faint scar at the base of his thumb. He wondered where he acquired it. If he acquired it. “Why are you doing this? You don’t know me. I could be a bad guy.”

“Hmmm.” Dean leaned back and the mattress creaked when he stretched his legs to place his feet on the bed, his socked feet brushing against Castiel’s thigh through the blanket. He crossed his arms over his chest, one hand rubbing his chin. “Nope. You don’t look like a bad guy to me.”

“And you know these things?”

“Hell yeah.”   

A gleam of white teeth accompanied Dean’s smile. For one moment, Castiel thought he could see the man’s soul but it was just an illusion from the television, lighting him in a soft green. Still, Dean radiated warmth and kindness which made Castiel answer back with his own smile, his head ducked while he looked at Dean out of the corner of his eye so he would not burn in the face of such freely given emotion.    

The men watched the television. Castiel did not see much of the flickering lights, as his body grew heavy and he sank back into the pillow. A single thought danced its way across his closed eyelids and he opened them halfway, turning his head towards Dean.

“Wait. Did you break into my room?”

Laughter, as it turned out, was good for the soul, too. 

***

The next time Castiel woke up, the twisted fear of his dreams were quickly forgotten when he recognized the soft lump cradled in his arms. The cat nuzzled his face and meowed happily when he scratched her ears. 

“Just so you know,” Dean spoke from near the open doorway, his voice pinched. “The cat is an  _ asshole. _ ” Dean sneezed thrice in rapid succession, followed by a deep sigh. “Son of a bitch.” 

The cat purred into Castiel’s neck, completely unfazed by Dean’s glare.

A large piles of tissues littered the edge of the desk, joined by a few different brands of antihistamines. Dean stood between the table and the doorway with a red nose and watery eyes that glimmered in the sunlight, doing his best to breathe in fresh air. The window was opened as well, filling the room with clean spring air. 

Castiel smiled into the cat’s fur. There was something about Dean’s attitude that caused a warm coil of amusement to wrap around his heart.

“Don’t listen to Dean,” he said to the cat. “He’s just mad he can’t pet you.”

Dean scoffed. “No way.”

Castiel eased himself out of the bed to enter the bathroom. Just before he closed the door, he turned to see Dean watching the cat as she left the room, a slight smile tugging at his lips.    


Castiel slept better than he had in-- well, ever. The tendrils in his heart were dormant, like the long, dark winter kept away due to the arrival of spring. He leaned his head against the door, the wood cooling his hot forehead. Despite everything, his head ached and his hands curled into fists in order to keep them steady.

He turned and strode two purposeful steps to the cabinet under the sink and crouched down. He ignored the mouldy towel and leaking bottle of shampoo to reach into the hidden recesses far in the back. In his hand he held a pill, one out of a group he remembered hiding a few months back. He dusted it off and studied the surface.      


There were plenty of pills in the main room. It was not necessary to squat on the bathroom floor, staring at one in the palm of his hand while hiding behind a closed door, as if he were trying to hide a rebellious thought from his brothers. They eventually found their way into his mind anyway. He set the pill on his tongue, felt the chalky substance begin to melt, the way it numbed the area it sat before he swallowed. He only took one. One would be okay.

It was stupid he felt the need to hide his usage from Dean. He was certain the other man knew what had caused his sickness and did not seem to mind his smoking, but he did not want Dean to feel his actions over the last few days were wasted. 

Castiel hid. He probably would have felt shame or regret-- something which he was familiar-- but he stood, took a deep breath and released the air along with any lingering traces of emotions, allowing the pill to do its job. It was not as effective as a handful, but it was better than nothing. A lot less likely to cause any trouble, too. 

The shower was soothing, washing away the smell of sweat and vomit, fear and disgust. It brought warmth to his bones and cleared his skin of grime, concealing the dirt trapped inside. His edges were dulled and the tendrils were hiding but he knew they would be back. Life was a cycle, after all. 

Castiel forgot about clothes until he wrapped the towel around his waist. The ones he wore before reeked of sickness and sweat. Normally he would not bother but the murmur of the television and occasional sneeze told him Dean was still in the room. He learned that most humans were uncomfortable with unexpected nudity, even though the human body was often touted as God’s greatest creation. Castiel had collected a lot of evidence over the last few years to refute that belief. 

The best choice was to pull on the sweatpants until he could find his own clothes, buried under a pile of discarded paintings, he was sure. Usually it did not matter to him where his possessions were hiding. Today, however, things were different and Castiel found himself caring, a dull underused sensation rounded at the edges due to the pill, but caring all the same.

Dean turned towards the sound of the opening door. His mouth parted as if he were to speak, but he froze, his body twisted at what looked like an uncomfortable angle. His eyes, however, moved in a pattern that confused Castiel. It took a quizzical tilt of the head before he realized Dean followed the lines of his tattoos. Dean stood to face him, crossed his arms over his chest and narrowed his eyes while he chewed his bottom lip, pointedly staring at his face and hair.

“You look like a mountain man.” Dean crossed the room and reached under the desk into one of the bags Castiel had noticed the other night.     


Castiel ran a hand over his face knowing Dean talked about his beard, though he had no idea how it resembled a mountain. He may be old, but he was not  _ that  _ old. He was too busy feeling the bristles, trying to decide if they felt white, to notice the items presented to him by Dean. An impatient noise from Dean caused him to look down. With a quiet thanks, Castiel took the razor and shaving cream before returning to the bathroom. 

The steam on the mirror cleared enough that Castiel could study his face. While his face was overgrown, his hair was definitely still dark. Usually he shied away from looking at his image too closely as the man before him often felt like an unfamiliar stranger. The body was a shadow of his former self, a true form which made humans quake. Now he was just a man. A man with permanent bags under his eyes and weary lines on his forehead, his face gaunt and tired. Castiel did his best not to look too hard at dull blue eyes as he shaved. 

It was strange how easily Dean shared. Castiel knew, after an incident involving a toothbrush left in the employee washroom, that most people prefer to have their own grooming items. Instead of an angry  _ that’s not how things work, _ Dean just handed over what he saw Castiel needed. It did not make sense.  _ Dean  _ did not make sense. Hunters were supposed to pass through town, do their job, and leave whatever mess was created behind. Dean did not leave. He stayed and took care of a man he had only known a week, acting as if he had been doing it for years. Castiel felt the same strange familiarity but he attributed it to his dreams calmed by swirling greens. Whatever was between them felt like a spiderweb, strong and delicate at the same time. Castiel did not want look at it, let alone touch it, lest it break. 

The sink was littered with dark bristles by the time he was done. It was not a close shave and some parts were patchy, but it was more than he had done in a long while. He combed his fingers through the hair on his head, attempting to push it back and tame some of the messier parts. While Castiel blinked at the man staring back at him in the mirror, he saw Dean appear in the image, leaning on the doorframe behind him with clothing in his hand.

Green glittered at him through the mirror. “What do you know? There’s a face in there after all.” Dean tossed Castiel the cloth mass when he turned towards the voice. “Don’t know about you but I’m starving.”       


Castiel looked down at his hands, a clean t-shirt and jeans between them, his hands extended in a pantomime of a beggar. He looked back to Dean, the man’s unspoken invitation still hanging in the air. “I-- I can’t keep taking--”

Dean stopped him with an outstretched hand, palm up and fingers splayed. “You’re not taking.” He lowered his hand and flashed a brilliant grin, teeth shining along with his eyes. “‘Sides, eating alone is boring. Tell you what: I’ll pay, you give me a story. Deal?”

Looking into Dean’s eyes, Castiel felt the green warmth wrapping around him again. The corner of his lip curved into a half smile. “What if I’m not interesting?”

“Oh, I didn’t say it had to be a  _ true _ story.”

“Deal.”  


	5. Chapter 5

Since he had not needed to be in a car for years-- before stopping in town he took buses and the occasional friendly truck driver’s offer when he did not walk-- he completely forgot how confining a car felt. He felt it now, his fingers digging into the leather beside his knees as he concentrated on his breathing.

Flying was so much easier. He soared across the skies in the blink of an eye, arriving at any destination he chose. The sky was open, the air was exhilarating, and the freedom he felt was indescribable, no matter how often he traveled under orders. When he flew, nothing was before him but wide open sky. Cars were confining, full of metal and plastic, and needed to rely on the other cars on the road _not_ to run into each other, a rather glaring design flaw in Castiel’s opinion.

Dean gave him a few quick glances as he drove, splayed across the seat in a practiced ease. He failed at suppressing the upward curve of his mouth. He patted the dash and looked over at Castiel, saying: “Ah, don’t worry! My baby’ll take care of you.”

Castiel breathed, taking in the car’s scent, leather and gunsmoke, just like Dean. For some reason, the discovery calmed him.

As it turned out, the ‘baby’ did take them to their destination without incident: the diner just on the outskirts of town. It was not far from the motel but Dean insisted on driving. Castiel had been there a few times when he first arrived in town-- fairly certain he would be gone again soon-- for coffee, mostly. He only took a few sugar packets and creamer cups from there, nothing too big, and either nobody noticed or they did not care. The two of them walked in with no problem and were led to a booth, the vinyl seats squeaking as they settled down. Other than a few bored employees chatting in the back, Dean and Castiel were the only ones in the establishment.

Castiel enjoyed coffee. He varied the amount of cream or sugar he would add to it, much to the confusion of his coworkers. Sometimes it was just sugar, so much of it the crystals settled at the bottom of the cup. Other times it was cream, added until the liquid turned white. Often he added both. It was good to have choice. Occasionally, he drank it black, like today. He did not want to add the cream, watch as the dark liquid turned brown and lightened to beige. He did not want to see that colour today. The coffee’s hot bitterness burned his tongue on the first sip.    

The food came quickly. Dean had a burger and Castiel ordered waffles with as much whipped cream and sugar the plate could fit. Dean raised an eyebrow over his burger as he watched Castiel add more syrup to the plate until it pooled into the sides.

“Dude. I’m getting diabetes just looking at that,” Dean said before taking a bite of his own meal.

Castiel chewed on the forkful of food and considered it. Yes, he could almost taste that. “I highly doubt that’s possible.”

Dean did not give a verbal reply, he just narrowed his eyes in a question. He seemed unable to decide if Castiel was serious or not. Castiel enjoyed keeping him guessing; Dean’s eyes sparkled in confusion when he studied Castiel’s face. Castiel would be lying if he said he did not find the expression amusing. Lying was a sin, after all.

For a few moments the only sounds between them was the crunch of food and Castiel’s knife striking the plate as he cut the waffles into even slices. Castiel almost thought he would be able to avoid talking about himself until Dean looked up, a question plain on his face. 

“So, um… Care to tell me a story?”

Castiel swirled a bite of waffle around the plate until it was filled with syrup and ate it. It was sodden and cold, but it gave him time to collect his thoughts. Dean still regarded him from across the table, waiting for a response.

Staring down at the plate, his fork poised but unmoving, Castiel said, “I don’t know how to start.”

With a smile, Dean leaned against the backrest. “How about: once upon a time?”

“Once upon a time…” The fork fell with a clang, bouncing until it was perched on the edge, only resting halfway on the ceramic. “Once upon a time, there was a man with a large family. This family expected obedience. They expected everyone to have faith.” Still looking down at his plate, Castiel laughed a bitter and humourless sound. “Once upon a time, a man disobeyed and fell from grace.”

“Was that you?

Castiel laughed again, tasting acid on his tongue. “No, but the comparison has been made.” He encountered his family before, leading to his need to ward himself. _They say your name along with Lucifer, Castiel._ “I came after.” He picked his fork up again, trying to cover the taste in his mouth with sugar. “Perhaps I was worse. I was… very good at following orders.” Under the leadership of Anna, his garrison had a perfect record and were considered the best. After his sister’s disappearance, Castiel kept that honour, even strengthening it, earning high accolades from the top. “They were--” furious? murderous? wrathful? “-- _displeased_ when I left.” Castiel finally looked up.

Dean leaned forward, elbows on the table and hands steepled before his face. While he was looking at Castiel, his thoughts seemed to be elsewhere. “Why’d you leave?”

“I learned the truth.”

The door jangled behind him, signaling the entrance of another customer. Both men turned to see the new arrival.

A grey haired man in black stood with his back to their booth, speaking to the waitress. Disinterested, Castiel returned his attentions to his plate, trying to decide if the last bite was worth the effort. He ran it through the middle of the plate with his fork, parting the sea of syrup.

“Castiel?”

The voice did not belong to Dean. He looked up, meeting the eye of the new customer. A priest, in fact.

“Father Phillips. Hello.”

The priest looked him up and down. “I haven’t seen you around in a while. You look… well.”

Father Phillips was not a liar. Castiel figured it was a platitude. Either that, or the man’s expectations had been lowered exponentially in the last few months.

Dean cleared his throat, making the other men acknowledge him. “I’m Dean, by the way.” He smiled with practiced ease, offering a hand to shake.

The father took the hand. “Dean. I don’t recognize you. From out of town, I take it?”

“Yes, sir. Just waiting on a call.”

Father Phillips and Dean continued to exchange pleasantries, allowing Castiel to no longer speak. The first day Castiel arrived in town it rained-- an almost a biblical storm-- leaving him cold and sick. He sought refuge in the church, though it was more the size of a chapel, to shelter himself from the storm. Churches were often the only place Castiel knew he could find help in the early day of his humanity. They were quiet and, if he closed his eyes and listened intently, he could almost hear the hum of heaven.

He did not go to the church anymore, it was too painful a reminder of what he lost. Regardless, Father Phillips gave him a place to sleep and even found his job. At first, the man tried to pull Castiel back from ‘sin,’ as he called it, but he eventually gave up. On the occasions they ran into each other again, Father Phillips would only give him a pitying look along with his greetings.           

The waitress called the Father back to the counter for his food and he left them with a “God bless."

Castiel managed to keep his rueful laugh in check, though he was not as sure he managed to keep the expression off his face. The way the waitress avoided his eyes as she cleared the plates and dropped the check made him wonder how he appeared. Though, it was possible she was too busy staring at Dean, who winked at her as she left. 

Dean set a few bills on the table. “So, do you think I passed inspection?”

Of course, he spoke about Father Phillips, who liked to act as the glue to keep the town together. He would be especially cautious around any newcomers due to the murders. Or murder and a disappearance, as far as the rest of the town knew.

Castiel caught Dean’s eyes. “Of course. You’re a good man, Dean.”

He meant it. Any man who took care of hopeless strangers and dedicated his life to saving people at the expense of his own was worthy of admiration. Dean in particular. There was something in his eyes, something hidden in the green, that spoke of righteousness and warmth.

Dean’s face could not seem to settle on an expression in the wake of Castiel’s sincerity, flashing through a rapid series of thoughts Castiel could not read. He did, however, notice the way the tips of his ears turned pink before he grabbed his jacket to leave, telling Castiel to follow.

On the way back to the motel, it was Castiel’s turn to smirk during the car ride.


	6. Chapter 6

Whatever call Dean was waiting for never came. For the next two months, he alternated between anger, pacing as if he were a caged lion, and levity, seemingly content to sit and wait, keeping Castiel company. Occasionally, Dean would disappear for a few days on what Castiel presumed was a hunt, but he always returned to town, waiting for that call.

On a spring day that was bordering on summer, Castiel and Dean sat against the wall between their rooms, the former, as always, with smoke in hand. It was just after Castiel’s shift at the gallery-- it had opened two weeks after the police investigation-- and Dean had just returned the night before.

Watching the road from the motel while sitting in the rapidly warming sun had become a sort of ritual between them. They had never formally agreed to anything but Castiel found himself outside anyway, and Dean would join him more often than not. Castiel did not examine the meaning behind the ritual, but his coworkers did comment on his good mood on the days Dean was in town.

It was best not to look too closely at the delicate web between them. All Castiel had to do was wave his arm the wrong way and it would be gone, so he ignored it, making a habit of shutting his eyes when he was too close to seeing it.

Dean’s fingers tapped against his knee and he kept his phone on his lap, checking it so often Castiel wondered if it held the secrets of the universe, waiting to be revealed in a flash of light and song. Castiel took a long drag and offered the joint to Dean, who shook his head. Castiel shrugged and flicked ash onto the gravel.

The other man would be less jittery if he took it, Castiel knew, but he was declining a lot more often lately, staring at Castiel from the corner of his eye when he heard the flick of the lighter. On the occasions he did accept the offer, Castiel often found Dean’s head on his shoulder and the deep breathing of the sleeping man in his ear. Castiel found those moments soothing: the reassuring warmth next to him, the soft prickle of short hairs against his cheek, and the smell of hair gel and leather. It was a rare moment of solace but it was not to be found today. Dean seemed determined to be on edge, the drumming on his jeans quickening in pace.

“If you hate it here, why do you keep coming back?” Castiel asked once the tapping started to lose it rhythm and become erratic noise.

Dean opened his phone and sighed as he snapped it shut again, not finding what he wanted.

“One,” he said raising one finger, “I don’t completely hate it here. And two,” he raised another finger, “I was told to wait here.” Dean lowered his hand and replaced the phone in his coat. His next words lost the hard edge of frustration, replaced with a light, teasing tone: “Why? Sick of me already?”

Castiel caught Dean’s eyes and replied without hesitation, “No, of course not.” If he did not know any better, he would have sworn there was a hint a relief in Dean’s face. “You’re agitated.”

“And here I thought I was being subtle.” Dean grinned. He then sighed with his whole body, sinking down against the wall. Some of the tension left his shoulders. “It’s not like I haven’t heard from him; I get texts-- jobs, really. But he keeps sending me back here.” Nearly laying down, Dean looked up at Castiel, the green bright in the sunlight. “So I wait for the call.”

“Why not go after him?”

“He tells me to stay, I stay.” Dean’s reply was final and filled with certainty. 

While Dean had never officially told him who was supposed to call, Castiel was able to figure out it was Dean’s father, or at least someone like one. Castiel was able to recognize the faith one has in a father, as he saw a lot of his former self in Dean’s actions. Castiel could not decide if he envied Dean’s conviction or pitied it.

“Yes, but what do you want to do, Dean?”

Dean stared up at Castiel, looking as if he had spoken Enochian rather than English. “I want…” Dean trailed off as he pulled himself back up against the wall. “I want,” he said again, pointing to Castiel’s hand, “that.”

So used to the sensation and smell of the joint between his fingers, Castiel had almost forgotten it, allowing it to burn away as they were conversing. Castiel raised an eyebrow at Dean. He knew that Dean avoided the question but he handed the smoke over anyway. The person to judge Dean for his decisions was not Castiel.

Marijuana had one of two effects on Dean: either he would fall asleep quickly, or he would be chatty and then fall asleep. Today seemed to be of the latter.

Dean leaned back and faced the road, his voice low and serious. “So, after you ran away from crazy religious cult land, did you regret it?”

Castiel regarded Dean’s steadfast stare into the distance with a slight smile. From Castiel’s tales, Dean had declared his former life “creepy cult-like” and would not hear otherwise. Not many people would call Heaven that, though Dean was unaware of how accurate the moniker felt at times.

The smile melted when he tried to consider an answer to the serious question under Dean’s words. “Uh... Sometimes. Perhaps it would have been easier to stay.”

“Easier, sure. But better?”

Castiel ran a hand through his hair, a non-committal rumble in his throat. Castiel did not have an easy answer but he wanted to be as honest as possible for Dean, to help with whatever purpose was contained in the line of questioning.

Was it better? He was once an angel, though Dean did not know that, with the power of all creation at his fingertips. He could fly, heal, and put the fear of God in the hearts of many. It was easier to be an angel. He did not have to deal with the ebb and flow of human emotions or physical pain and he always knew his purpose, given to him by God. Or so he believed.

Now, he was just a human man. One who needed smokes and pills in order to make it through everyday life, trying to hide from emotion. One who spent too long on the streets, seeing the best and worst of humanity. One who lived in a motel for over a year, not part of anywhere. He had to hide, sure, but he was free to make his own choices. Was he not?

“I don’t know.” Dean jumped when Castiel broke the silence between them. He must had contemplated for a longer time than he realized. “But I think I would have made the same choice.” Castiel was not sure if Dean was more surprised by his reply or himself.

There was something broken in Castiel, he knew, even when he was still an angel. Something found its way into that broken part of him, the crack, and caused him to question, to doubt. Angel, human, or something in between, there was a spark within him that would never let him to blindly say yes, not when he knew he had a choice. He hoped he made the right one. It was a bit late to change it now.

Dean glanced over to Castiel. “Oh, yeah? You rebel,” he said with an amused huff, punctuating his words with a light punch on Castiel’s shoulder.

He continued to stare after lowering his arm, eyes wide as he thought about something far away. He looked lost and Castiel wondered if he was drifting among the stars.

“Hey,” Castiel said gently, tapping Dean on the nose. He came back to Earth, staring at Castiel’s hand as if it offended him. “Where’d you go?”

“Nowhere,” Dean said, rubbing his eyes.

Dean straightened, shook his head clear, and stretched his arms above his head. Castiel watched the movement of his muscles, how they lengthened and strained as his hands pointed towards the sky. Dean brought his arms back down with a sound of satisfaction, his next words falling out with a rush.

“Maybe I’ve been thinking, you know, about what I’d do if there’s no call soon. California’s nice this time of year.”

“What’s in California?”

“Oh, you know: sun, sand,” Dean lost his jovial tone on the last word, “Stanford.” He was quiet for a moment, then spoke again, all traces of solemnity lost, “Oh well. No point in planning. It’ll come soon. Anyway, got some work to do.” With little more than a backwards glance, Dean disappeared into his room.

Work, right. He probably was going to fall asleep in the next five minutes. Castiel stayed in the sun and looked down as his empty hands. Dean never did return the joint. Castiel stared at the closed door, imagining he could see through it to Dean, who had one hand wrapped around a freshly opened bottle of beer, the other lit by fading embers. The image was imaginary but it stirred something within Castiel.

For one brief, absurd moment, he considered knocking on Dean’s door.

Castiel returned to his room to work on his latest painting: a splash of green colour, erased with white so many times he almost added an inch to the surface. It was still wrong.


	7. Chapter 7

There was a buzzing in his skin, under his arms, his legs, his chest. Castiel could feel it in his head, a constant vibration, a humming light. He tried to scratch at it, tried to dig into the source and, when that failed, he tried to chase it away with smoke or numbing pills.

None of it worked. He could still feel it, dull, crawling, skittering underneath him. It made his heart race, his palms sweat, his skin tight and confining. He wanted to dig his fingers in, pull off his skin so he could find what was underneath, find the corruption and scrub it from the empty space where a soul was meant to lay. He knew it was a pointless endeavor. He could not escape it.

It was hardest in the gallery, right next to the door concealing the staircase in the back which led to the unused office above. Castiel never ventured there since it always gave him a sense of unease. He could not brush off the sensation anymore, so he avoided the back rooms and hid in the basement where the cold and musty earth surrounded him.

When he left the borders of the town on his way back to the motel, rubbing his arms in an attempt to alleviate the sensation, the dread and aching buzz was easier to handle. The hum quieted and settled somewhere in the back of his head. By the time he made it to the motel, he could almost tune it out.

He knew he should not ignore his growing unease but it hurt too much to think, so he collapsed on his bed and took more pills. Picking up the paintbrush, Castiel tried to drown out the buzzing, but instead his hands shook, moving in rhythm with the sound in his head. The results were confused swirls of green and blue, circling around each other but not quite filling the spaces in between. The colours spun wildly before him, making the vibrations move until they settled behind his eyes, pushing against them until they ached under his fingertips.

It was dark by the time Castiel dragged himself outside in the hopes the night air would clear his head. He made it as far as the siding beside his door, one hand braced against the pockmarked surface, the other running through his already frazzled hair.

“Well, you look like shit.”

Looking up to see Dean, his body outlined by the harsh glare of multicoloured neon, Castiel only grunted in reply. He closed his eyes and leaned against the wall. Even the neon buzzed.

“Alright, then.” There was an hand on Castiel’s shoulder. “Look at me.”

Castiel obliged, if only after his wordless grumble was met by an insistent squeeze of Dean’s hand. He was met with wide, shadowed eyes, searching and soft.    

“I got an idea,” Dean said, gesturing towards the car behind him with his free hand, “come with?”

Dean did not release him until Castiel agreed, rewarding him with a smile. The rumble of the car soothed him. It never even occurred to Castiel to ask where they were going. He followed Dean without any hint of trepidation.

On a long, dark patch of highway, Dean pulled over onto the shoulder.

In reply to Castiel’s questioning glare, Dean said, “It’s a clear night,” as if it explained everything.

Dean exited the vehicle after digging in the backseat. Castiel stood by the opened passenger’s door for a moment, rubbing his eyes as the vibrations settled before he followed Dean.

Dean sat on car’s hood and leaned against the windshield, one leg dangling over the edge. He propped a beer bottle against his knee, staring at the sky. When Castiel hovered near the car, unsure of what to do, Dean patted the empty space beside him in invitation. Castiel joined him, taking care that no buttons or zippers on his clothes scratched across the paint surface. As kind as Dean could be, Castiel was rather certain any damage to the baby was a punishable offence. At first his back was straight as an arrow but soon he leaned as well, taking care to gather his coat around him, lest any errant buttons cause trouble.

An opened beer bottle ended up in his hands, though he had no idea from where Dean procured it. Dean held his arms out in a wide gesture towards the sky, bumping against Castiel’s elbow. The beer sloshed around, but thankfully it did not spill. If it had, it would have been, as Dean said once, _a damn shame_ . 

“For you, Star-Lord,” Dean said, amusement plain in his voice.

Castiel was going to need to keep a list of all the nicknames Dean had for him. He was starting to lose track. 

It was a clear night. Dean did not lie. Castiel’s head lulled back and he stared at the million lights above him. The stars were laid bare, open for anyone to see as long as they looked up. They seemed so close together when viewed from below but Castiel knew that they were miles upon miles of empty space between them.

He thought of the _aurora borealis_. He remembered how the lights shimmered in the sky and joined the stars, appearing to bridge the gaps between them. He saw those lights many years ago while on a mission in the north, charged with watching over humanity. He felt something surge along his wavelength as he watched the green dance across the night sky, bringing the stars together. When he tried to explain the way he felt to his fellow angels, he was only met with a few confused pulsations before they were forced to move on to the next area.

That night, something snaked into the broken, cracked part of Castiel and marked him as different. As a human, Castiel painted the stars and the lights between them to try and find what he felt that night, so long ago, but he could never find it, never understand it. He still felt the pull in his heart when he looked at the stars as he sat next to Dean, a strange longing for that _something_ which had no name.

It hurt. It was beautiful and it hurt. His beer emptied, Castiel set the bottle down and dug in his pockets for his lighter. Dean turned towards the flame, poised before the smoke between Castiel's lips, his mouth pulled into a tight line as he exhaled sharply through his nose.    

They both paused until Castiel doused the lighter. Castiel tilted his head to the side to better see Dean’s eyes in the starlight and raised an eyebrow. “Since when were you a prude?”

“I’m not. It’s just--” Dean broke off with a sigh and looked to the side, trying to collect his thoughts into the right words. “It’s just that there’s a difference between ‘hey, this is fun’ and ‘I need this to function’ and I’m pretty sure you’re the second one.”

“Says the guy with a flask in his coat.”

Dean shifted, unconsciously tapping over the pocket holding the flask. “This is not about me,” he muttered. Dean angled his body toward Castiel, catching his eyes with his own. “Cas, buddy, just--” He swallowed and patted Castiel’s shoulder, leaving his warm hand there. “Just... don’t die on me, alright?” 

Dean’s eyes were the same green he saw so long ago and, as Castiel stared into them, he saw the stars reflected back at him. Castiel wordlessly took the joint out of his mouth and replaced it in his pocket. Dean squeezed his shoulder and smiled before returning to his previous vigil, leaving Castiel stare at him in bewilderment. Save for the distant sound of frogs, all was quiet between them.

“I know I’m a handsome devil and all but you’re starting to give me the jeebs,” Dean said with a smirk, breaking the silence. He lifted a hand towards the sky, pointing towards a cluster of stars. “If I remember right, that one’s called Cassiopeia or something.” He squinted at it. “Looks like a squiggle to me.”

Castiel inched closer to Dean, partially to match his vantage point and partially because the air was beginning to cool and Dean provided warmth. “I thought you said you knew nothing about this stuff?”

“I don’t. I have a giant nerd of a brother.” Dean pointed out a few more clusters, right only half the time. “See what I mean?” he said with a laugh after another gentle correction from Castiel. Dean still looked at the stars, but his eyes were unfocused and he frowned slightly. His voice was soft when he spoke again. “We used to do this a lot.”

Castiel lay on his side, curved towards Dean, with his coat wrapped around him like a blanket. “We?”

“My brother and me.” Dean was on his back, one arm behind his head for support. His eyes stayed upward. “We’d sit here sometimes and, you know, just look. Of course, Sam has questions about everything so he asked me if there were names. Me, being the genius big brother I am, made shit up.” Dean smiled at the memory, but his eyes were still distant and sad. “Then the little nerd went to the library the next day and checked out every book he could find about astronomy. He spent the next few nights proving me wrong.”

Castiel placed a hand on Dean’s arm. He recognized the look in the man’s eyes. He saw a similar one in the mirror the day Castiel first realized his family was completely done with him.

“Sounds like a smart kid.”

“More like a smart ass.” Dean laughed, the sound a little broken. “Could never take things at face value. I guess that’s why he left for school. Blazing his own path while I’m--” Dean shook his head then looked at Castiel from the corner of his eye. “You know, I think I like my names better.”

Castiel understood the need for a change in topic. “I’d like to hear them.”     

“Okay well, that one is _clearly_ Batman.”

Curling in even closer to see what he pointed out, Castiel allowed the even cadence of Dean’s voice wash over him. Dean was a warm, solid weight beside him and Castiel felt his head dip onto the other man’s shoulder, who never shook him off. Castiel hummed in agreement to whatever Dean pointed out, even if he could not see what he was talking about. It was difficult for him to see with his eyes closed, after all.

Castiel’s headache and unease of the day was completely forgotten. Despite the fact he was fully exposed by being on the hood of the car on an unknown highway, Castiel felt safe and content, two things he rarely-- he’d go as far to say never-- had at the same time. He let himself relax, completely at ease in Dean’s presence. 

As he drifted off to sleep, Castiel could have sworn he felt a hand stroke his hair.


	8. Chapter 8

He had to do it eventually.

Castiel stood at the door, his hand flat against the cool metal. It was an innocent enough door: plain, and the type people expected to see in a commercial building. It blended into the background, matching the drab surroundings of the back room so well that no one ever took any note of it. He stared through the small rectangular window, eyes narrowed, glimpsing the fuzzy outline of the stairs obscured by the shadows within. It was a door: simple, plain, unremarkable and barely worth a second thought.

It sang. Castiel pressed his other hand against the door to join the other, the buzz under his skin multiplying and reverberating through his whole body. He gasped and rolled his head forward, closing his eyes. 

The song was felt rather than heard, but it was unmistakable. He let it flow from his hands and into his body, filling himself with the constant hum. It swirled around him, seeking out the space where a soul was meant to be, and, if he could still see the colours, he knew it would be in glowing violets and blues. 

His feet bumped against the door sill and he pressed his cheek against the metal, straining his too weak human ears. While he could not hear it, much less see it, he could still  _ feel  _ it. The colours wrapped around his heart in a gentle embrace. Even with the way they cradled his heart, as if it were a delicate baby bird, he could still feel it breaking. Strange how an appendage so vital for life could be so fragile, could fall apart so easily even as it pumped blood to the rest of his body. 

A single, choked sound wrenched from his throat, the pitiful noise lost as it echoed through the empty gallery. It ached. It vibrated under his skin. It made his head pound and his heart tremble. Yet it was familiar and comforting all the same. He knew that the limitations of his human body were responsible for the pain-- he was no longer built to handle the light-- but perhaps it was the longing, the desire for home that was the real torment.

Covering the door with as much of his body as possible, Castiel let the hum fill him, hurt him, and give him a feeling of home, filtered through his human perception. He would never feel Heaven in the way of an angel again, but he still squeezed his body against the door and let his home hurt him.

He had to open the door. He had to find what was up there and make sure it would cause no damage to the innocent people in town. He did not want anyone else hurt due to his inaction. Instead, he stayed still, feeling himself fall apart in tiny, microscopic segments until he slid to the floor. 

He had to open the door. The doorknob was typical. The lock would be easy to pick. He opened his eyes and watched it loom above his head, willing it to turn itself so he would not have to touch it or have to move from the door and lose the tenuous connection to Heaven. 

He had to open the door. It was so much easier to sit and stare. It was so much easier to be immobile and feel the vibrations in his body, to take the miniscule amount of comfort along with the pain. 

He had to open the door. Raising his arm to reach out to the doorknob took the same amount of energy as a battle against a demon horde. His fingers touched the surface, surprisingly smooth and unblemished for something completely neglected. Despite the tremor in his hand and the ache from stretching his arm at an unnatural angle, Castiel grasped the doorknob and tested it, fully expecting resistance. 

He opened the door.

It was not locked. It turned without a sound, as if waiting for his arrival. The door swung inward, causing him tumble forward. He managed to keep himself from hitting his head on the stairs by grasping the bottom step’s edge with his hands.

Each and every leaden and hesitant step up the stairs echoed in a hollow sound along the shadow’s edges. As he slowly ascended, the vibrations under his skin reached a crescendo and created a cacophony as he could no longer separate the comfort of home with strain on his body. Still, he continued upward, needing to see what was at the top.   

At the peak, Castiel stood in a dark room, unremarkable from any other office at first glance. Castiel eyed each corner of the room as he entered it, trying to peer beyond the shadows. A long, dust covered desk topped with balls of paper and an ancient, decrepit computer took up most of the space near the window to his right. However, he paid little attention to it after his first sweep of the room. After his eyes adjusted to the gloom, Castiel started directly at the sight in front of him. 

The biggest, most garish, and poorly crafted crucifix he had ever seen overtook the inoffensive white paint of the wall before him. The art, if it could be considered that, was slapped together from the dried cans of paint flanking the base of the cross. The paintbrushes looked as if they were dropped where the painter stood, left to dry in a sticky mess on the linoleum floor. The unpracticed and hurried brushstrokes betrayed both the fervor of the artist as well as their lack of talent. The painted body was bloated and the cross was crooked, a barely recognizable mockery of religious symbolism, but recognizable all the same. Castiel stepped closer and looked up-- the crown was  _ pink _ \-- and gazed into the accusing lopsided eyes of the Son of God.

He tilted his head and stared back.  _ This  _ was what was causing him so much trouble? He stepped forward, keeping eye contact, and reached his hand out to the wall. 

The feeling of home, of Heaven, struck him with a force which knocked the breath out of him. He was pushed back by a heavy wind, the last remnants of holy power passing through his body. For one solid second, the empty spaces within him were filled, making him whole. The feeling was fleeting. The power blew away, leaving behind an empty man staring at a painting devoid of any meaning. A shock of pain ran up Castiel’s legs as he fell onto his knees and clasped his chest, gasping for air. 

Whatever part of Heaven was contained within the painting left with the final gust. The loss was palpable. Castiel remained on his knees, leaning back to glare at the face looking back at him. He did not bother to reach out, to try and grab at the last remaining traces of home. It was already gone. Even if it was not, it would not waste itself on the undeserving. He just laughed: hollow, empty, and more than a little crazed. 

When he regained control, Castiel reached into his pocket and pulled out a pill bottle. He shook it, the last few pills rattling around the nearly empty container. After the night under the stars, Castiel really did try to reduce his drug intake and, for a few days, he succeeded. However, Dean had left in a hurry a week ago and he no longer had someone to watch out for him. He could not handle the buzzing of the last few days on his own, so he returned to his regular coping methods. He tried to ration his intake by only carrying a few pills with him, but the amount increased rather quickly from one, to two, to three. 

Castiel popped the lid and emptied the pills into his hand. He pushed each until they formed a triangle in his palm: father, son, and holy ghost. It seemed appropriate. He shoved them into his mouth, his head leaning back far enough to catch the eye of the figure looming above him. 

“What are you looking at?” 


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: alcohol and drunk boys

Castiel’s brain knew he had to investigate but his body was determined to remain glued to the bed. He kept telling his limbs to move, to stand up and  _ do  _ something. The one time they did obey his command, the room tilted and spiraled until he fell backwards, hitting his ankle on the metal bed frame. After that he felt nauseous and he was not entirely sure he would make it to the bathroom if anything came up. If he was going to choke on his own vomit, it could at least be due to a good night.

He did not take any pills today, not that he could keep them down anyway, which was probably not helping him. Castiel looked at his chest and imagined he pushed off the mountain that sat on him and, inch by agonizingly slow inch, pulled himself into a sitting position. He removed the mountain, but the storm remained. Forcing it down, he determinedly placed one foot on the floor, then the other, and took a deep breath before standing. 

The room tipped to the side and Castiel sighed, leaning against the wall to make sure he did not fall down. He slid along the wall, managing to shamble into the bathroom before the torrent in his stomach bust. There was nothing in his stomach to come out, save bile and a little water, but his body still forced him to heave and shake. Castiel leaned his head against the porcelain rim and tried not to think about the last time his bathroom was cleaned.    


This sickness was not natural. What touched him in the gallery was not intended for human consumption and his body was reacting accordingly. It was the price he paid for his indulgence. Yet another indication of his rejection of Heaven. 

There was a knock on the door. Either it was the manager-- he was pretty sure he forgotten to pay this month-- or someone to berate him for not showing up for work. He did not bother to move, his body would likely fail to respond again, and the tile floor cooled down his heated body. 

The door opened, and Castiel heard the booted gait that could only belong to Dean. Castiel groaned and tried to decide if he was annoyed by Dean’s lack of regard for locks, or thankful. Before he could decide, there was a hand on his back. 

“What is it this time?” While Dean’s voice was light hearted, Castiel could hear the tone of bitter disappointment lurking underneath. 

“Nothing,” Castiel managed to reply.

“Uh-huh.”

Dean maneuvered Castiel until his back rested against the bathtub, checking his pupils and testing his temperature. Dean was a blur of denim and canvas. Castiel blinked to remove the film over his eyes and watched as Dean pressed a cool washcloth to his face. 

Castiel could not stop himself from leaning into the touch. Dean’s hands were rough and calloused, but his touch was gentle and moved in a practiced motion which suggested he had done this many times before. With Dean so close, he could see how the other man’s eyes were bloodshot, his face drawn and pale. When Castiel lifted his hand and lightly touched Dean’s cheek with his fingers, Dean froze.         


“Are you okay?” Castiel asked, trying to catch Dean’s eyes with his own.

Dean returned to his task as if there had been no delay, not returning the gaze. “Right as rain.” He flashed a weak smile before moving to the sink to rinse the washcloth. He remained at the sink, leaning against it as he appraised Castiel’s state. “So… Can you get up or are you gonna upchuck all over my shoes?”

Castiel glared at Dean before gripping the bathtub and hoisting himself off the floor. If he had to grab the wall once he was upright, that was his own business, no matter how high Dean’s eyebrows raised. 

“How,” Castiel began, forcing himself let go of the wall and stand under his own volition before continuing, “is rain right? It seems like a strange description.”

There was a long pause where Dean slowly shook his head side to side but eventually it worked. Dean uncrossed his arms and ran a hand through his hair, letting out a small chuckle. “I don’t know, buddy. It’s just a saying.” Returning Dean’s smile, Castiel was pleased to see how the other man’s face relaxed. Dean looked around himself, as if he just became aware of where he stood. “I could use a drink. You up for a drink?”

Castiel indicated himself and said, “I’m even standing on my own two feet.”

“And you should be very proud of that.”

Even though Dean meant it as a joke, Castiel truly was proud. Most of the nausea was gone but he did sway on his feet when Dean’s back was turned. Nonetheless, he followed Dean out of the motel, with only a short pause to grab another pill. It would take the edge off.   


***

The bar was a dive. It was also the only bar. The floor was more than a little sticky, even in the late afternoon, and the dim lighting failed to hide the suspicious splotches decorating the surfaces: tables, chairs, the bar top, the bald head of the man always face down at the other end of the bar, everything. Dean walked in like he owned the place, though he did that everywhere, and smiled at Juan, who near instantaneously plopped a bottle in front of him. It took a little longer for Castiel. Clearly, Dean had been here before.

“And here I was thinking you finally left for good,” said Juan.

Dean took a long drink from his beer. “What can I say? I just love the ambiance.” 

Juan shook his head, a smile on his lips. Castiel saw the way Juan’s gaze lingered as Dean looked down at his drink, the bartender’s teeth catching his lower lip. Overcome by an irrational bout of anger, Castiel kept his eyes on Juan.

As if he could feel the weight of Castiel’s eyes, he turned and acknowledged his other customer. “Hey, moocher.”

Castiel bristled at the title. Juan was a sore loser. “I believe you said-- and I quote: ‘a lifetime supply.’” 

Castiel stared Juan down, who shifted his weight from foot to foot and turned red under the scrutiny. The bartender’s discomfort was oddly satisfying and Castiel elected to ignore the reason for the emotion while he continued to stare down Juan.       


As always, Juan faltered and broke away first. At least Castiel still had some use for his practiced righteous fury. Not that he was angry or anything. Juan sighed and disappeared into the back, managing roll his whole body along with his eyes. It had no effect on Castiel, not today at least. A clattering plate of nachos announced his return before Castiel could answer Dean’s questioning glare. 

“Why thank you,” Castiel said. He indicated Dean with his head. “You can add him to my tab.”

Castiel wondered if it was true that eyes could stick to the back of someone’s head if they rolled their eyes too much; Juan seemed determined to test the theory. When Juan turned to Dean, his annoyance melted and transformed into something Castiel realized he did not like. 

Castiel looked at his hands wrapped around the beer bottle, the label wrinkling as he twisted them around each other. He removed his hands and made them relax in his lap. His fingers tapped a rhythm into his knee and Castiel wanted to reach into his pocket and take out a pill in order to chase away the feeling of  _ weirdness  _ that overwhelmed him.    


“Fine, but only ‘cause I like you,” Juan said to Dean with a wink. Dean’s head jerked back and a small furrow formed between his brows, an expression Juan missed in order to speak to Castiel again, his whole body stiffening as he turned. “You are still an ass."

“Indeed,” Castiel replied, grabbing his beer again since he needed to stop the tapping. “Say hello to Robert for me.”

“Asshole!” Juan yelled over his shoulder as he disappeared into the back. 

Dean tracked Juan’s departure, then turned to Castiel, eyes wide enough to shine even in the dull light of the bar. “So, um.. free food?”

Tipping his bottle towards Dean, Castiel said, “And beer. Only the cheap kind, I’m afraid.” 

“Huh.” Dean studied the label of his own beer before shrugging and taking another drink. “And to think I’ve been paying for this stuff.” He munched on a nacho, smiling around the bite. “Wow, these are terrible.” Dean picked up another chip, holding it in front of his lips when he saw Castiel’s narrowed eyes. “But free, which makes it, like, tolerable now.”  He grinned with all his teeth, making sure he crunched as loudly as possible.

It was not a conscious decision but Castiel felt his lips pull upward, as if there was a thread between him and Dean which made them mirror each other. Castiel ducked his head, making sure he did not look too close.

Dean patted Castiel’s forearm. “That’s better.”

“What’s better?”

Dean looked at the other end of the bar before facing Castiel again. “Nevermind. What’s up with the ‘lifetime supply,’ anyway?”

“We had a bet. I won.” 

Castiel took another drink to give him the excuse to look away for a moment. While he had not gone out for drinks with his coworkers for a long while, he did have a stage when it happened most nights. Overtime, Juan and Castiel formed a sort of rapport-- which was rather easy to do when the other man provided him with unlimited alcohol-- and made thousands of silly bets. The biggest of which was Robert. Juan wanted to learn whether or not the new arrival was interested in men. After an up close, thorough, and personal investigation Castiel concluded that, yes, indeed he was. Turned out Juan only asked because he wanted Robert for himself. The two eventually ended up together, anyway, but Juan was never overly friendly with Castiel again. Robert still made him honour the bet, however. 

“I don’t really come in that often, anymore,” Castiel concluded, looking over Dean’s head to the television. 

When Castiel looked at Dean again, he was open mouthed with his eyes darting around the room, unable to stay still. “You’re telling me that you slept with the dude’s boyfriend, resulting in said… uh… partnership?”

“That’s one way to put it.”

“You do that sort of thing often?”   


“Create partnerships? No, just the one.”

“No, that’s not what I--” Dean downed what was left in his beer and ran a hand through his hair. He picked at the label. “I mean, uh--” The label ripped into two pieces before he stripped the bottle bare. Dean scrutinized the two halves with the same intensity which he aimed his gun. “Dudes. I mean dudes.”

The man was rather red. Castiel tilted his head and squinted at Dean, trying to figure out what was so embarrassing to him. Dean would likely continue to stare at his hands for all eternity if Castiel allowed him. 

“Depends on what you mean by ‘often’ but yes, it does happen. Not just men, either.”

Dean tore his attention away from the label, allowing it to flutter onto the bar top. He looked up, face twisted in confusion. “Wait, what?”     


Castiel sighed. Humans could be so strange sometimes. “Why is that always so surprising?”

Everyone was always so interested in other people’s bedroom habits. Castiel did not care much, himself. Well, except for Robert. Maybe one other person but that was dangerous territory and he refused to think any further on the subject. 

“So it doesn’t bother you, being... bisexual?” Dean said the last word slowly and quietly, as if he had to keep a child from hearing a dirty word. Which was odd because Dean had often said much worse in different circumstances. 

“Gender hasn’t meant a whole lot to me. I think bonds between people should not only be limited to the form of their bodies.” Castiel tried to catch Dean’s eyes but he was staring down at his hands again. Not much of an expert on reading people, Castiel hoped to look Dean in the eye when he asked his next question. “Why, does it bother you?”

“No. No, no.” Dean cleared his throat loudly, then rapped his knuckles on the bartop. “No.”

“Glad we’re clear on that point.” 

It was not until Dean pressed the bottle to his lips that he remembered it was empty. “Right, so, beer.” He cleared his throat again. “A whole bunch of it. Like a lot.” He slammed the empty bottle down with a  _ thump. _ “Or whiskey.” Dean’s laugh was a high pitched. “Drink up me hearties, yo ho!” 

Castiel blinked. Humans were strange. 

***

As much as Dean grumbled about leaving his car behind, both of them agreed he was not in the right condition to drive. Castiel acted as Dean’s third limb, who wrapped his arm around Castiel’s shoulders and leaned heavily on him. They stumbled their way back to the motel which took a considerably longer time than Castiel would have alone, understandable due to the extra weight. Dean cursed each time he tripped over something, such as a branch or a shadow, pulling Castiel along with him. 

In the early hours of the morning, the men reached the parking lot and Castiel wrestled Dean to his door. He took the keys out of Dean’s hand in order to open it, and he followed him in order to be sure he would end up on the bed instead of the floor when he passed out. Dean stood swaying in the threshold until Castiel flattened his hand between his shoulder blades and guided him into the room. 

The first thing Castiel noticed was the size of Dean’s room. It held one bed, like his, but it was certainly bigger and less shabby than his own. There was even a couch with all its cushions on the far end. Castiel had a half-formed thought about Mrs Miller’s shady business practices before he was startled out of his contemplation. 

Dean turned around, holding Castiel’s gaze with his own, and walked towards Castiel until he was crowded against the wall between the door and window. They did not touch but Dean was close enough for Castiel to feel the heat of his body and smell the alcohol on his breath.

When Dean flattened his palms against the wall on either side of Castiel’s head, he was not threatened. He knew if he pushed Dean away or asked him to stop, he would. Castiel did not stop him. He was intrigued by Dean’s eyes, illuminated in the dark room by the neon lights which peered through the closed blinds. His eyes were narrowed, a green so dark it was nearly black, and searched Castiel’s face for a endless moment, looking for the secrets of the universe.

Dean traced the outline of Castiel’s jaw with a single fingertip, his touch so light Castiel barely registered it. “Why are you here, Cas?” His voice was low, sleepy, but undercut with an urgency Castiel was unable to name. 

“To make sure you don’t fall asleep on the floor, I suppose,” Castiel said, lifting the corner of his mouth in hopes of pulling some amusement out of Dean.  

“No. I mean, I mean,” Dean slurred, leaning heavily against the hand still pressed to the wall and bringing the other to tap at his temple, “here.”

Before Castiel could inform him there was no way he was in Dean’s head, since he was standing right in front of him, Dean continued to speak. “Dad didn’t tell me to come back. Said, said something about a lead. Didn’t need me.” Dean snorted, breaking eye contact for the first time, his head hung low. “And I came back here anyway, wondered why, but now I know.” The intensity of Dean returned gaze felt like it could burn Castiel. “ _ You, _ ” Dean said, the word like a curse, and pressed an accusing finger into Castiel’s chest, “are in here.” He tapped his temple again. “And I don’t know what I’m supposed to do about it.” 

Castiel did not know either. The threads between them, the spider web carefully crafted over the last months, was in full view. They were twisting until they were taut, straining with the effort of keeping together, a few fraying at the edges. Castiel did not know if they could take the pressure. He leaned his head back against the wall, breathing deeply, and closed his eyes at the sight, hoping he could keep it from breaking.    


Castiel heard Dean’s hand squeal down the wallpaper, followed by a surprised curse. Dean fell forward onto Castiel and righted his weight, but seemed loathe to let go. He rest his chin on Castiel’s shoulder. Castiel was surrounded by the smell of Dean-- of leather, gun oil, and alcohol-- and he resisted the urge to press his face into Dean’s neck and breathe him in. 

The man was drunk and would likely not remember his words in the morning. It was wrong to take a few drunken urges as the truth. Even with Don, nothing happened until the sober light of day the first time, in order to be sure it was his choice. He kept his hands at his sides, balling them into fists to keep himself from wrapping his arms around Dean. 

“Everybody leaves.” Dean’s voice was muffled due to the fact he spoke into Castiel’s shirt. “Mom, Sammy, even Dad.” He sighed and pulled away, reaching out one hand to cup Castiel’s jaw. “You will, too.”

“Trying to get rid of me?” Castiel’s attempt at a joke was a failure, his voice higher than usual, his tone oddly distraught. He cleared his throat to cover the strange sound which hung in the air, then licked his lips, trying to ignore the way Dean’s eyes lowered to watch the movement with interest.

“No, of course not.” Dean ran his thumb gently against Castiel’s lower lip, and stared at it in complementation. “I’ve never done this before.” A pause. “Well, that not true. Just not with a--” He cut himself off with a sigh. “This would be so much easier if you were--”

If he wanted to, Castiel could stop Dean. He could reach out with his hands, grasp Dean’s wrists and quietly tell him to go to bed. Instead he stood still, as if the two of them were under a trance, and reveled in the feel of Dean’s hand against his skin, of him standing so closely. Just a little longer, and he would move, just a little--

Castiel gasped at the feel of Dean’s lips against his own, a chaste touch at first in a test of reaction. His or Dean’s, Castiel did not know. The test was successful. When Dean opened his mouth, letting Castiel taste the whiskey on his tongue, it was like an electric current. It was in full view: the  _ something,  _ the desire Castiel ignored whenever he was around Dean in fear that it would be taken away, like everything else he wanted in his life. Castiel was alive, jolted awake by the touch that he both desperately needed and had to let go. 

He raised his hands, wanting to grasp Dean’s hair and pull him closer, and flattened them against Dean’s chest, gently pushing him back. Dean moved with no resistance. He looked up, his mouth still parted, and he retreated into the shadows, hiding his eyes from Castiel before any thoughts could be revealed. 

“You should go to sleep, Dean, it’s late,” Castiel said, lowering his gaze to his feet.

“Yeah, yeah. I should.”           


Castiel heard Dean stumble in the darkness and he reached out without thinking to stabilize him. As soon as Castiel felt Dean’s bare skin on his hand, the electric current returned. A short, breathless silence passed as they stood still, trying to understand the new energy between them. Castiel did his best to remain composed, ignoring the emotions welling up inside him. 

“Come on, over here.” He narrated each movement, making it mundane and clinical at each step until he had Dean settled underneath the covers.

When Castiel turned to leave the room to return to his own, Dean reached out, circling his wrist with warm fingers. 

“Don’t leave.”

Castiel closed his eyes and took a deep breath before answering. His room was waiting, and there was no way he was sharing a bed. 

“Okay,” Castiel said before his head caught up with his mouth. 

Dean let go of his wrist with a satisfied sound and buried his face into the pillow. He was asleep before Castiel even had time to consider his agreement. Castiel sat on the couch, which gave him an unobstructed view of the bed. He looked at Dean’s sleeping form, studied the lines of his body, and saw the threads pull and snap one by one. While Castiel thought they were all gone, he looked closer, seeing one strand, thicker than the rest, remaining strong and unbroken. He hoped it was enough. 


	10. Chapter 10

_It begins._

Castiel opened his eyes. Still lost in the cold darkness of the deep, he stared into the unending black above him as the colours danced.

Yellow. It was not a friendly, sunlit, cheerful yellow, but a dark and malevolent shade. It moved in a spiral, trapping the green, orange, and brown within its path, forcing them to follow its tune. The colours danced together until they mixed, the yellow enclosing the others in a circle until nothing was left but yellow, darkened, evil, and immensely satisfied.

_Thy will be done._

***

Castiel opened his eyes. This time he was greeted by the sight of the drab, dirty ceiling of a motel room. He never dreamed of yellow before. He hauled himself into a seated position on the couch, the bed scarf draped over his shoulders pooling around his waist, and fought back a wave of vertigo. Pinching the bridge of his nose, Castiel leaned forward and tried to swallow away the dryness in his mouth.

Once the world stopped spinning, Castiel took stock of the room. The bedsheets were carelessly tossed back until they hung over the edges of the empty mattress. Why Dean, who must have drank twice as much as Castiel the night before, wanted to go out into so much sunlight was beyond Castiel’s comprehension.

It was probably for the best that Dean was not present. Castiel could return to his room and avoid dealing with the events of the night before. A tendril of emotion seemed permanently grafted to his heart now, and he was concerned he would no longer be able to ignore it when he was in Dean’s company.

Castiel stood, ready to leave, ready to bury himself under a pile of pills and smoke in order to quiet his inner self, but his plans were thwarted by the telltale rumble of Dean’s car. He hovered in the middle of the room, unsure if he should sit down again, when Dean entered the room wearing sunglasses and performing a precarious balancing act with a coffee tray and fast food bags.

“Ah! Sleeping Beauty has awakened!” 

“Beautiful, huh?” Castiel’s voice was a low murmur.

He felt like the term better described the person standing across from him. If Dean heard him, he made no indication, busying himself with removing his glasses and digging into the paper bags.

Dean sat at the table as Castiel still stood in the middle of the room, his head wanting to leave but his legs carrying him to the opposite side of Dean, where food and coffee waited for him. Castiel peeled away the paper wrapper, the grease of the breakfast sandwich staining the interior.

“Is this what they call room service?”

Despite the fact the volume made his head throb, Dean’s laugh was a welcome sound. “Don’t get used to it.”

Taking a sip of his coffee, Castiel eyed the sandwich, unsure if he trusted the meat doing a poor imitation of bacon. “You’re rather cheerful. Shouldn’t you have a hangover?”

“ _That_ I’m used to. I wasn’t leaving my baby alone. She’d get lonely. And you are a grump in the morning, so I figured you’d need caffeine.” Dean shrugged, dismissing his own kindness as a routine worth little attention, even as Castiel admired him for it. Setting down his nearly finished sandwich, Dean studied Castiel over laced fingers. “Why were you on the couch, anyway?”

Castiel was not much of a liar, occasionally manipulative and prone to hiding things, sure, but not a liar. Not when it mattered. “You asked me to stay.”

“I… did?” Dean ran a hand through his hair, causing it to stand up, and rubbed at the back of his neck. “You didn’t actually have to listen to me, Cas.”

“I didn't mind.”

With the top bun set aside, the bacon looked even more like rubber. The egg did not fare much better. Castiel was sure if it fell it would bounce right back on the table. He reassembled his sandwich, deciding to at least try it, and avoided Dean’s stare, looking as if he was trying to piece together the puzzle known as Castiel.

Dean did not remember. While Castiel knew it was for the best, a tiny part of him wished things were different, that the two of them could talk about whatever was between them. Castiel silenced that part, chastising it for making him consider an idealized world, a world in which he was not a fallen angel and could have regular, human things. He was not meant to have them. At one time, he was content in that belief, electing instead to protect the people who had those lives. Now, he did not even have that. Now, he had drugs.

The rest of their breakfast passed quietly, until Castiel excused himself to his room. He wasted no time in locating his pills, then turned to his latest creation. Filling his brush with yellow paint, he looked for meaning: to his life, his dreams, whatever Dean was to him, to anything.

He could feel the empty space within him, a yawning chasm he did not know how to fill. The green was gone now, taken over by the angry swirls of yellow Castiel plopped onto the page with a wet _slap_. He stared down at the mess, an overwhelming sense of unease blooming at the sight and stilled his frantic movements. He took his remaining stock of paint and used each to cover any trace of yellow. The blue became green.

Castiel turned his back on his mess of a painting, unable to stand the sight of it. He crossed his arms, gripping his forearms, as the vibrations rumbled under his skin. Real or in his head, he did not know, either way he had to run. He had to do something other than stand still, feeling the dread sink into his bones.      

He was in the waning sunlight before his mind had come to any conclusion. Back straight and hands swinging at his sides, Castiel did not look behind him as he moved with a purpose which did not match his tumultuous thoughts. He could hear the song, feel it moving beneath his skin, but he still was not sure if it was part of his imagination. It did not matter. His feet were taking him somewhere, which was better than standing still, purposeless. 

Castiel stopped in front of the church. Standing in the entrance of the empty building, he stared at the modest altar, a crucifix affixed to the wall behind it. Never taking his eyes off the sight, he walked between the rows of pews, his footsteps echoing throughout the building.

Halfway up the aisle he lost his drive, a wave of weakness overtaking him. He slid into the pew closest to him, the old wood groaning under his weight, and buried his face in his arms, which rested on the back of the row in front of him. 

At some point Castiel had completely lost his way, his purpose, his mission. It happened so gradually, in little increments stipped away piece by piece unitl it blew away, that Castiel had never even noticed it was missing. Everything had been so certain in his past. Now he could not even trust his own mind.

He strained his ears in order to hear the song coming from behind the altar and wondered if it was real. Maybe it was his imagination and the last few years was a fever dream while he was ‘reeducated’ up in heaven. He knew they had done it before. There were holes in his memories no celestial being should have which filled him with a sense of longing and loss. Maybe it was a slow form of torture, giving him the things he wanted only to pull them away. It did not matter. He did not plan on moving again.

The measured sound of steady footsteps made it difficult for Castiel to concentrate on willing himself out of existence, as did the extended sigh of a person settling next to him. The person beside him continued to sigh and stretch, not allowing Castiel to ignore him any longer. Castiel angled his head so one eye could peek out from behind his elbow.   

“It’s been so long I was starting to think you’d forgotten where I was,” Father Phillips said.

Since he did not have any energy to expend on speaking, Castiel only stared in response.

Father Phillips’s serene expression never left his face as he leaned forward to better see Castiel. The colours of the sunset through the stained glass windows danced across his face, casting him in an halo of light.

“Why are you here, Castiel?”

Closing his eye, Castiel hid his rueful grin in the crook of his arm at the unintentional echo. He knew Father Phillips still looked at him, patiently waiting for an answer. 

Castiel had not planned to enter the church but he always gravitated towards the place. He was drawn to the feeling of home, of serenity, of peace. The song may have pulled him there but it was the comfort of being surrounded by the first thing he had ever known that made him return. He stayed away as much as possible, rolled his eyes at prayers, and laughed in the face of religious items but he still came back every time to be in the one place that could bring him home, if only in imitation. It hurt every time, but he still did it.

“I don’t know.” Which, really, was as close to the truth he could ever get.

The wood creaked, signaling the Father leaning back. “Maybe you should talk, or look for guidance. It could help.”

“Do you really think anyone is listening?”

“Of course. At the very least, I am.” The Father placed a hand on Castiel’s shoulder. “It must be difficult, being an angel with no faith.”

Time froze as Castiel processed the comment. He lifted his head from his arms, bracing his hands on the wood, and twisted his body to look at the Father.

“You knew?” His voice was quiet, apologetic in tone. If a priest were to meet an angel, it was unlikely he envisioned someone like Castiel.  

“Well, you did introduce yourself as _Castiel._ Sort of gives it away.” Father Phillips’s smile was easy and free of judgment.

“I, uh…” Castiel swallowed, worried about what the Father must be thinking. “I’m… Fallen.” He did not like saying the word but Father Phillips needed to know, needed to understand who was beside him.

The Father’s expression did not change. “I figured that out, too.”

Hiding his face again, Castiel tried to fall back into the cocoon of darkness. It did not work. The man was still beside him. The song remained in his ears. The headache resulting from the night before still throbbed. No, this was his reality. This was his choice. This was his life. Sometimes it sucked, but it was his.

“I’ll admit that I didn’t expect an angel to look so.. human,” Father Phillips said after a respectable amount of silence.

“We’re-- They’re not. We usually don’t have forms perceptible to most humans.”

“Then you--”

“A vessel.” Straightening his posture, Castiel indicated his body. His borrowed body which had become a part of him. The one he covered in tattoos, making it different from the man who had it before. The one he abused with drugs, not respecting the other man’s sacrifice. “He was a good man.”  

“Why not use his name? Surely it would be easier to hide.”

Castiel stretched out his body, his vessel, until he rest his head on the backrest and looked at the ceiling. “He deserves to rest. His family deserves to rest.”

It was just Castiel in the body. It was a gift. The man was dying. Castiel promised peace and safety for his family and he took the offer. He made sure the soul had entered Heaven with the last of his power, the very least he could do for him.

Castiel told himself that what happened was beyond his control but even he knew it was awfully convenient he found his true vessel as soon as he fell to Earth.

It was not until a few months later, as Castiel crossed states and lost himself in the city, that he heard about the search efforts and witnessed the human grief of a broken family. It was not until he saw the faces of the grieving widow and the small child holding her hand, that he realized what he had done to James Novak.

The only way Castiel believed he could bring peace to the Novak family was to allow James to fade into a memory but now he understood that, had they been given a choice, they would ask for their family to be whole again.      

The hand returning to his shoulder brought Castiel back into the present. He turned his head and looked into the sympathetic eyes of the priest. Castiel did not want sympathy. He wanted judgement for the lives lost, for the families torn apart. For his failure.

“Despite my… needling,” Father Phillips said, amused at his own word choice, “I don’t believe you are a bad person. Perhaps I prod you because I can see the good.”

Father Phillips was not a liar. It did not mean what he believed was true.

“I don’t know about me, but there is good.” The woman at the coffee shop who allowed him to stay for hours in the winter to keep warm. The face of the nurse, genuinely worried about his patient while most would have dismissed a junkie. Dean. “There’s good in the world. Sometimes it’s hard to see.” Blood on the concrete as it dripped from his head. A woman scooting away in her seat, wrinkling her nose and clutching her handbag. Harsh words and rough hands as he was thrown out of another establishment, unwelcome. “But those people-- the good-- they deserve--”

The door slammed behind them, heavy in its frame. Castiel did not bother to look around, but the Father stood to greet the arrival. He stood between the pews, a perfect picture of the gentle priest. Castiel saw the Father’s eyes light up in recognition, then he nodded at the person in acknowledgment.

“If you don’t believe me, maybe you will believe him,” Father Phillips whispered to Castiel before disappearing into a different part of the church.    

Eyes closed and head filled with sound and feeling, Castiel still knew exactly who was behind him. He was not entirely sure what clued him in: an expectation, the familiar walk, or just the sheer _presence_ of the man when he entered a room. The kind of presence which blotted out anything else and lead to a singular focus on that one thing, that one person. It did not matter. What did matter was that Dean settled into the newly vacated seat, sliding in beside him like he always belonged there.

Castiel smiled, which was strange because he did not feel like it. “Hello, Dean. Are you following me now?”

There was a short but noticeable pause before Dean answered, “Not on purpose.”

“Just here to worship, then. As you do.”

“Uh-huh.” Dean drew out the vowels, shuffling in his seat. His knee hit Castiel’s at the slight movement due to their close proximity. “Okay. Fine. I had a feeling that you’d be here.”

“Because I’m here to worship. As I do.” Castiel opened his eyes to the vision of Dean, crowned in lights of green and gold, looking down at him with a sight flush to his cheeks.

Dean reached into the inner pocket of his coat. “Here.” He stretched out his hand, palm up, his eyes very interested on the back of the pew in front of him.       

After a brief second of hesitation, Castiel took the cellphone from Dean’s hand, his fingers lingering a little longer than necessary. He flipped the phone open and frowned at the display. There was nothing on it other than the typical lights and symbols, so Castiel could not figure out what Dean intended by the gesture.

“It’s not going to explode, buddy. It’s a phone.”

Castiel snapped the phone shut and gave Dean a glare. “I am aware of that.”

Pursing his lips and staring down at his hands clasped in his lap, Dean took a breath and said, “It’s a gift.”

“A gift?”

“Yes, a gift. You parrot.” Dean rubbed the back of his neck. “You don’t have one… so… y’know. Now you do. It’s all paid for and uh--” He gestured towards the phone still clasped in Castiel’s hands, over exaggerated in its nonchalance. “Y’know, if you needed to talk to someone.”

The object in Castiel’s hands was a brick of plastic and metal, which was always rather strange to him so he never felt the need to have one of his own. He knew there must have been some sort of meaning to Dean’s gesture, which he still did not understand.

He caught Dean’s gaze, his eyes narrowed in confusion. “The only someone I want to talk to is sitting beside me.”   

Dean spluttered before he spoke. “You just say shit like that so easily.” He leaned back in his seat and stared straight ahead. “My number’s in there. Y’know, for when I’m not…”

The rest of his sentence trailed away but Castiel finally grasped his meaning. The connection should have been obvious. “You’re leaving.”

“Yeah.”

The word echoed around the empty church, fading into the persistent buzz that permeated the building. The sound only Castiel could hear and he could not decide what to do with it. Instead, he focused on the tangible object in his hands. Castiel ran his fingers over the smooth plastic of the phone, taking stock of any ridges or scratches.

Dean was leaving. He felt a strange pulling sensation in his stomach, as if it were lurching downward, but when he looked at his feet he saw nothing but the floor.

It was not a goodbye, not really. Dean’s gift was a clear indication that he wanted to keep the lines of communication open. Castiel knew things were going to change. In fact, things were in a constant state of flux: seasons changed, people died, odd friendships created. It was Castiel who was in stasis, living out of a motel room ignoring the movement outside, preferring to be numb rather than face his reality.

Castiel looked at Dean, who sat slightly stooped over his folded hands, his lips pursed and eyes closed, betraying his intense compilation. He was Castiel’s catalyst, dropping into his life and spurring him back into motion, making his heart full of emotion again. Dean was the good. The type that should be saved, protected. The reason for his Fall.

The sound hummed from behind the altar, high pitched and just on the edge of painful when he focused on it. Castiel slid the phone into his jeans pocket and allowed himself one last, lingering look at Dean, to make sure he remembered. Things were going to change.

“Thank you.” Hand moving of its own accord, Castiel reached out to hold Dean’s face. “You’re a good man.”

He traced his thumb over the angle of Dean’s cheekbone, as the other man looked up at him with rapt attention. Castiel tried to assuage the growing worry evident from the deepening lines on Dean’s face with a smile, before running his hand down the slope of Dean’s jaw. When Castiel stood to move away, Dean tilted his head back to follow the touch.

“Cas?”

The question followed him, Dean’s voice low and raspy, as Castiel strode up the aisle, only stopping when he was within arm’s length of the crucifix, the song growing louder as he advanced.

Castiel did not look back. If he did, he knew he would see Dean, eyes searching and concerned, and he was not looking for comfort, to be pulled back under the blanket of safety he felt in Dean’s presence. No, Castiel had to be clear minded and determined. Which, admittedly, was not that high of a bar-- what bar? Such a strange phrase, yet oddly appropriate-- for him anymore. He was capable of mostly coherent thought at the moment. It was good enough.

Rather than mindlessly reaching out, like he did at the gallery, he raised his hands until they were a breath away from the metal surface at the base of the cross and closed his eyes. He _listened._ He willed his mind to clear, not thinking of the noise behind him or the many swirling colours which always occupied his thoughts, and mentally reached out.

The song filled his body with constant buzzing, causing the hair on his arms to stand on end and the pain of his headache to return, now accompanied by a skilled percussionist who hammered at his skull. Castiel endured the discomfort and he hummed along to the beat, until his body become part of the song, vibrating with the force of it. While Castiel was never much of a musician, he managed to sync the rhythm of his body with the sound of Heaven, quite possibly for the first time in his long existence.

Cool metal rest beneath his palms and Castiel continued to hum, searching for the thread of Heaven’s light. He almost lost his control when he finally found it. He could _see_ it! The light was bright and beautiful and he felt his eyes water and heat up, even at the mental image. It would be a shame to lose his eyes, but that was not important when he was in the middle of experimental not-really-angel, not-quite-human, not-exactly-magic.

Castiel tugged at the thread. He manipulated it, finding the edges and wrapping it around itself until it was a small, glowing ball. Then, he lurched back, this time with his physical body, until his back hit something solid behind him, the quick jab of pain jerking Castiel out of his meditations.

He opened his eyes. A ball of concentrated light floated above his hands. He no longer had the ability to see who or what the light belonged to but he was certain it was from Heaven, most likely a piece of an angel. The light drifted away from Castiel, a trail of sparks reminiscent of stars left it its wake. Castiel saw the light settle into the outstretched hands of Father Phillips.

Father Phillips’s wide eyed look was similar to a young child discovering life’s miracles for the first time. He stared into the center of the ball, the light’s shining stars highlighting his face and the tears in his eyes.

“This is-- it’s beautiful.” The Father’s wide smile threatened to overtake his face. “Why did it come to me?”

Castiel stepped in front of the Father, which allowed a better view of the light. “You are one of the faithful. I suppose it recognized that in you.”

An angel with no faith. Father Phillips was right. It was hard. Especially when the little piece of Heaven, the one Castiel freed and held in his hands, rejected him for another.

“How could you let this go, Castiel?” Awe and wonder were inadequate qualifiers to give to Father Phillips’s voice, but Castiel did not have any better. “It’s so warm.”

How, exactly, was Castiel supposed to answer a question like that, to a man having the religious experience of his lifetime?

He never told anyone why he left. He could not. The truth was too terrible, too horrible to reveal. Castiel had spent much of his mortal years just trying to comprehend what he learned. He could not tell Father Phillips the truth. The man’s faith was a virtue, one Castiel admired. No. Castiel had to fight on his own in order to protect the innocent humans. The mission had guided his life as an angel and he continued it now, even without Heaven’s support.  

“Would anyone care to explain to me just what the hell is going on?”

Dean remained a few paces away from the other men, his body angled towards the door, one foot already poised as if he needed to run. He refused to look directly at the light, warily assessing it out of the corner of his eye.

Father Phillips never moved when he answered, “Not Hell, Dean. Heaven.” 

Dean swallowed, and opened his mouth a few times without any sound. His next attempt came out in a bust. “Right. Naturally. Because of course it is.” He raised his arms into the air, letting them drop against his legs with a loud slap. “Father, I am sorry, I know you believe and all that stuff but there is no way, _no way,_ that is true.”

In the split second the Father allowed his eyes to leave the light, he cocked an eyebrow at Castiel. “You would pick the atheist.” Father Phillips took a few slow steps towards Dean. “I know you can feel it, too. Otherwise you wouldn't take this seriously. It’s like a warmth in your chest, isn’t it? Come closer, it won’t hurt you.”

“In my experience,” Dean said, backing away from the advance, “the exact opposite is true.”

They needed to exercise caution. The light itself emulated serenity, likely bolstered by the Father’s kind heart. There was nothing evil about the light itself, but any piece of Heaven’s power must be treated with respect. If an untrained and unsuspecting human tried to use it, the results could cause a catastrophe, even in such a small form.

The intent behind the light’s presence troubled Castiel. He did not know who or what left it in the church or gallery. It was time to find out.

Castiel placed himself between the men. “Not entirely correct on either side. Father Phillips, may I borrow it?”

After he was given permission, Castiel called the light to him. It took more concentration than he expected to coax the light back to him but his attempt succeeded. He wrapped his hands around it, the cage of his palms hiding it from view, and turned his attentions inward.

The light reflected the atmosphere of the room, casting excited little sparks down Castiel’s arms. The prickling made him tense, his heart beat rapidly, and the pulses continued along with the rhythm. He felt the light titer in his heart, like a bird welcoming the arrival of the day, and Castiel tried to figure out if the light was affecting him or if it was the other way around. There was something about chicken and eggs hiding in the back of Castiel’s mind, but he was distracted by a sharp pulse, completely out of sync with the rest of them.

Castiel looked at the empty space between the front row pews a split second before the body appeared with a soft wing beat. Twin cries of alarm came from either side of him, one slightly more inappropriate than the other, especially in a church, but Castiel stared onward.

“Did you like my gifts?” The art gallery manager tilted her head to one side, the movement making her look like she was attached to an invisible string.  

“Halloween come early, or is today just extra creepy?” Dean placed himself between the manager and Castiel, one arm stretched out as a shield.

The manager did not blink. It was an unnerving habit, not blinking. Angels did not need to blink. The human body has a million idiosyncrasies, parts and pieces most people never gave a second thought, secure in the body’s automatic system. Castiel felt every one when he became mortal. It took some time before he could stop fixating on his heartbeat and his breathing, afraid that if he did not keep track his body would fail. Blinking also took time to become automatic.

As Castiel stared into the angel’s unending gaze, he finally understood the discomfort in the first few humans he met on Earth. He fought the urge to squirm, his hands tightening around the light cupped between them. 

“Now, now, Dean. It isn’t time for you yet. I suggest you take a seat.” She waved her arm in a quick, mechanical movement.

Dean made a strangled sound and a blur of movement appeared in Castiel’s peripheral vision. He heard the crash as Dean’s body was forced to sit. Dean grunted with effort, trying to wrench himself off the seat, held down by the angel’s power.

Head still to the side, the angel never stopped her scrutiny of Castiel. He stared into her eyes, which were devoid of any humanity, and could not look away.

The angel smiled, one side of her mouth lifting while the other twitched, her teeth exposed. “Did you like my gifts? I hope you did. We are on strict orders not to interfere but I could not resist.”

She stepped towards Castiel using each joint separately, giving her a strange, lurching appearance, and stopped within an inch of him. She made a low sound of consideration, then leaned forward to sniff him.

“Lady, what the hell!”

“What is that?” A delicate wrinkle formed on her nose and she jerked her head back. “You’re all off balance. Is this what a headache feels like? Odd. This man doesn’t have the same problem.”

For the first time since she entered the room, the angel looked away from Castiel. She turned her gaze to Father Phillips, who stared at her with the same intensity as he did the light. The Father crumbled under the angel’s attention, falling to his knees and bringing his hands together in prayer. Her only response was the slightest narrowing of her eyes.

“He’s one of yours,” Castiel said. “Leave him out of this.”

“But he cast his lot in with you. We both know that’s not a good thing.” She sighed and faced Castiel again. “Though it’s true, he’s not part of this. Your friend on the other hand…”

“Hey! Sitting right over here.”

“Out of all the humans to roll around in the muck with, you choose Dean Winchester.” The angel laughed, the sound echoing off every surface in the church. It was charged with power, rolling over the humans like a thunderbolt, and the air became thick with the smell of ozone. “I mean, we weren't even looking for you! It must be my lucky day.”

Castiel’s head ached. Worse than a hangover. Worse than withdrawal. “Winchester. Why do I--”

“Ah, that’s right. I forgot.” The angel tapped Castiel’s head, the hum of grace hitting him like a baseball bat. “I think we might have dug through your memories a few too many times. Do you know how many times we had to send him to reeducation?” She directed the last question at Dean.

Dean tried to stumble his way through a response. The angel no longer made any effort to appear human. The shadows in the darkened church cut her features into pieces, until all anyone could see were jagged edges and the eerie glow of pale skin. Heaven’s power hummed beneath her skin, the weight of it pressing down upon the mortals.

“Sixteen!” She yelled, the thunder becoming a storm. “Can you imagine?” 

With a flick of her wrist, Castiel flew backwards until he was pinned against the altar. His hands were forced apart and Castiel panicked when he did not see any light. It was lost. He slumped where he landed, watching the angel’s feet as she paced back and forth.

Power hummed unrestrained, bouncing all around the church. It buzzed under Castiel’s skin and shook his bones. The others felt it, too. The Father trembled, his hands still pressed together, murmuring his prayer like it was his only lifeline. Dean set his jaw, defiantly holding his head high, but his hands clenched until his knuckles turned white and all humour left his face.

“Do you remember,” the angel began, interrupting her pacing to loom over Dean, “the first time your father let you drive on your own?”

“How do you--”

“Ah, good! You do. This would be much more tiring if you didn’t.” Leaning forward, the angel rest her hands on either side of Dean’s head, her fingering curling around the wooden backrest. “You were on this empty highway in the dark and you were tired. More like stupid. You were starting to fall asleep and you drifted over and-- oh no!-- this giant truck is coming towards you.” She lowered her voice, speaking directly to Dean, but Castiel heard each word clearly. “But then there’s this light, this bright blue flash, and you are on the road again, like nothing happened. You know that light looked nothing like headlights but you told yourself it was, didn’t you?” 

The angel’s words hurt Castiel and he did not know why. He tried to grasp at the twisted feeling in his gut but he only found empty space.

“I mean, it’s not like we’re going to let you die or anything but your idiot guardian panicked and went brute force. All I wanted was a little finesse. Took me ages to clear up all the repercussions. You know what thanks I get?”

A heavy silence covered the church as she stared down Dean waiting for an answer. Dean’s eyes darted around the room before he noticed she was still silent. He tried to smirk but failed to do more than expose his teeth.

“I’m gonna guess none.”

The angel patted Dean’s cheek. He winced. “So smart. I see why Castiel likes you.”

“Really?” Dean swallowed and cleared his throat. “Here I thought it was my charming smile.”

“Oddly enough he doesn’t seem to mind. I don’t know how. You’re all just a mass of quivering flesh and pus.” She straightened her back and brought her hand to her face, moving the digits one by one, each on a string. “You’re all so… _limited._ ”

The storm raged without purpose. The power rolled around the church but never took shape, never took direction. Castiel braced his hands on the altar, pushing himself to his feet. His head ached and his heart trembled, every mortal part of him screaming at him to run. He would never leave, not with the Father and Dean forced to face the angel’s wrath. Castiel would not allow them to become victims to the angel’s petty squabble.

The angel gave an impressive performance of rage and fury, but there was no one guiding her wrath. Most angels failed without guidance, without orders, without someone telling them what to do. No one told her what to do.

“You broke ranks.”

The storm found its focus. Castiel grit his teeth against the onslaught, holding his ground against the wave that assaulted him. The angel’s back was a stiff straight line as she stomped back into Castiel’s space. Her eyes glowed blue and her mouth twisted into an inhuman snarl.

“You were ordered not to interfere.” Castiel felt as if a hand were at his throat, but he forced the words out. “You disobeyed.” He leaned forward until his their faces almost touched, needing to see her eyes as he said his next words. “We seem to have that in common, Sister.”

The angel screeched, the ear-splitting howl of a predatory bird, and slammed Castiel back into the floor. “I am _nothing_ like you!”

Angels hit with incredible force. Castiel had forgotten. His bones rattled at the blow, a sharp sting running from his head to his legs, forcing him to kneel. Though the pain shook him, the angel did not break him. His body was intact. Castiel stared up at the angel, her skin cracking and revealing the grace underneath, and knew she had no real power. Made of pure fury, she was capable of destroying anything in her path but she did not have the permission to use it. If she did, Castiel would have been a speck of dust a long time ago, hit before he ever had time to react.

Castiel started to tremble before he the first barks of breathless laughter escaped him. The angel did nothing. He laughed until he cried and still the angel did nothing. She could do nothing, not without proving him right.

All the time Castiel spent running, spent hiding himself and laying low to keep himself away from the long reach of his brethren, he never once stopped to consider the angels did not want him dead.

“Stop. Stop that.”

His laughter turned into choked sobs and he could no longer see the church through the blur of tears. His vision swirled with colours.

“I said stop!”

A jabbing pain pierced through the hysterical haze and Castiel calmed himself long enough to glance down at the blade in his shoulder, still held by the angel who went completely still. In his core, deep in the centre of his body where his soul was supposed to be, he felt a song. A quiet, gentle melody hummed along his body, gathering at his wound. The light never disappeared, was never gone. Castiel absorbed it, made it part of himself, and he never even noticed. When Castiel looked into the eyes of the angel, he saw an overgrown and arrogant child.

“You can’t kill me,” he growled.

He reached into the darkest part of himself and grasped the light. Bringing it to the surface, the borrowed power came to life.

Castiel rose to his feet in a slow controlled movement, never taking his eyes off the angel. She let go of the blade and stepped back, her mouth hanging open. The angelic Castiel was made of stars and electricity, fire and fury. The lightning stuck and he could feel _them._ His wings unfurled behind him, casting shadows on either side of the crucifix. No longer bound to Heaven, no longer bound to their rules and orders and commands, Castiel used his power.

He chanted, a low and guttural Enochian incantation, long forgotten by anyone but the most ancient of beings. The angel fell to her knees and coughed, a spurt of light spilling out of her mouth and escaping into the Heavens. As Castiel’s chant reached a crescendo, the angel’s head was forced back, her grace forced to leave her vessel and return home. In the last pulse, Castiel gave his power to the woman, wrapping it around her chest and filled the empty spaces in between.

The blade in Castiel’s shoulder clattered to the floor and with one final gasp, the angel left the manager's body. Castiel lurched forward to catch her unconscious body before she hit her head on the ground, the stretch pulling at his half-healed wound. Removing his coat, Castiel balled it into a makeshift pillow for the manager as he laid her down. He pressed two fingers against her neck and found her steady heartbeat.

There was no light left over. Castiel searched for any residual power, but he only found black emptiness. The chasm yawned wider and louder than ever before, made worse with his brief flirtation with his old angelic life.

Across the many years of his long existence, Castiel pushed himself to the absolute limit, battered and beaten in angelic battles or abused in an altercation of his own making. Every time, he felt tired and low but nothing prepared him for the exhaustion that replaced the lost light. He crumpled forward, not caring where he landed.

“You’re okay, you’re okay.” Dean pressed a bandana against Castiel’s shoulder, keeping him steady with strong hands. Dean continued to mutter comforting words as he pulled Castiel into a proper sitting position.

Castiel leaned against Dean’s shoulder, too tired to hold himself upright. Dean’s body tensed at the contact but he did not push Castiel away. While he knew the others needed an explanation, all Castiel wanted was a stiff drink and a giant handful of pills. His skin still pricked with the power left in the air, serving his reminder that he just threw away all of his heavenly gift in one dramatic gesture. Even one pill would work, but his bottle remained in his coat pocket, resting under the woman’s head. 

“Grace,” Father Phillips said, kneeling beside the woman, “are you alright?”

The grace was gone. Castiel already checked.

“I’m okay,” the woman replied, taking the Father’s offered hand in order to sit up.

Oh. The manager’s name was Grace. Maybe the angels were starting to gain a sense of humour.

“Actually, I feel better than I have in months.” Grace smoothed down her shirt and addressed Castiel. “Thank you.”

She thanked him. An angel came down from Heaven and possessed her due to a vendetta against him and she _thanked_ him. Even in the silver glow of the dark church, her eyes shined as she smiled. Castiel did not understand how she could look at him with such kindness. He did not even know her name until a few seconds ago. 

“For what?”

Resting her weight on her knees, Grace sat before Castiel. She brought her hand to his face and trailed it down his shoulder to rest beside the bandana Dean tied around Castiel’s wound as a makeshift bandage.

“You fixed me instead of you.” She pressed her hand to her chest, covering her heart.

The grace, in the brief moment it moved in sync with Castiel, must have heard his wish. He did not want any harm to come to her to begin with, but healing her was, in a sense, making amends. The angelic magic repaired the heart he never knew was broken. 

“I didn’t even know you were sick.” 

“Most people don’t. I don’t really talk about it. Guess I don’t need to worry anymore.” Grace took a shuddering breath and, as she turned her head to the ceiling, Castiel saw a tear fall down her cheek. “I’m going to see my brother get married.”

Castiel knew, he just knew, that Grace said yes to the angel on the promise of a miracle. Grace’s life was used as a bargaining chip and she was brought into a battle she never should have encountered, should have been kept safe from, should have been protected. “I’m so sorry, Grace.”

“For what? I knew you wouldn’t let me get hurt. And when you were all glowey, it felt like…” Grace paused, trying to find a way to describe something intangible. “Like being wrapped into a blanket made of kindness. I wasn’t afraid.” 

From its place flat against Castiel’s back, Dean’s hand clenched around the shirt fabric at Grace’s words. Dean never moved or spoke beyond that, his hand quickly returning to rest, as if he never reacted at all.

“Castiel,” Grace continued, “why are you here?”

Dropping his chin to his chest, Castiel allowed a giddy chuckle to bubble in his throat. “Everyone keeps asking me that question. I have no answer.”

“I think you do,” Grace said, returning Castiel’s coat. The pills rattled in the pocket as she moved it. “And it’s not those.”

As he took the offered coat, Grace’s eyes shone a blinding blue, the colour of a gentle soul.

“I’m sorry, but I have to ask,” Father Phillips said from his place beside Grace, “are we safe now?”

The angel returned to Heaven and the others would know she acted out of turn. His brothers would not take kindly to her decision and Castiel knew they could be very persuasive when they needed to secure an angel’s obedience. It was unlikely that particular angel would be a problem. However, it did mean more could come after Castiel and cause pain for the people of the town. Heaven may not want him dead, but that did not mean they would not make his life difficult.

“You should all be fine, but I--” He was just so _tired._ “I’ll need to leave.” Maybe he could find a cave, or a remote island without any people, and sleep for a year. If he could sleep.

“Do you need anything?” Father Phillips reached into his pocket and held up a set of jingling keys. “Can you drive?”

“In theory.” While he never put it to use, he had a few memories, not his own, about his hands around a wheel. He tried not to bring them to the surface, allowing the memories to rest.

“It’s, ah--” Dean broke his silence, his voice rough and when the others turned to face him. He looked everywhere but their faces. “It’s okay. I, ah, I got him.”

“You’re sure?” Castiel asked.

“Yeah,” Dean said. He briefly met Castiel’s eyes, flashing a grin with no heart, before looking down at his free hand fiddling with the hem of his shirt. “I’m getting outta here anyway, so…”

The lines of Dean’s body, squeezed close to Castiel’s side, were straight and taut with tension. Still, as they stood to leave, Dean gripped Castiel’s shoulders to keep the swaying man steady. 

Grace kissed Castiel on the cheek and the Father offered a handshake before they left. Castiel glanced over his shoulder as he reached the doorway with Dean. Grace and Father Phillips stood side by side, their bodies silhouettes outlined by silver moonlight. Their bodies were mere shadows, but their eyes shone at they watched Castiel’s retreating form. In that glint of light, their twin, wide-eyed stares reflected reverence and awe.

Castiel had to look away. He was not worthy of their feelings. If anything, he should be staring at them.


	11. Chapter 11

Dean did not talk on the drive back to the motel, the air thick with tension. His hand kneaded his thigh and he chewed his bottom lip as he drove. Castiel could tell that Dean was trying to work through the day and figure out what he wanted to do with him. If Dean wanted Castiel to leave, never to cross paths with him again, Castiel would accept Dean’s decision, no matter how difficult the task.

The tension in the air made the pain in Castiel’s head worse but he did not reach for his pills. Faced with the likelihood of being cast out, he figured the least he could do was face Dean as sober as he could possibly be, which was not saying much. Still, he felt he needed to at least try, if only for a night.

When Dean pulled into the empty parking lot of the motel and turned off the engine, he kept his hands on the wheel, blinking at the sight through the windshield. Castiel waited, wanting to allow Dean to move first. Dean tapped a drumbeat on the wheel, the tiny sound loud in the still darkness.

“Should get a better bandage on that. Wouldn’t wanna get infected.” The door creaked as Dean climbed out of the car.

Castiel did not move, watching as Dean walked to the door of his room. Dean stood in the threshold, leaning to one side with his hands in his pockets, waiting. He stared at the peeling paint under the eaves of the building, but Castiel could feel his attentions. He stayed still until Castiel joined him, pushing off the wall and entering the room in one fluid movement, never looking Castiel in the face.

“Sit,” Dean ordered, indicating the bed before rifling through his bag on the table.

Castiel did as he was told. He rest his palms over his knees, keeping his back straight and at attention, no matter how much he wanted to curl up on the bed and sleep. He was just so tired.

Dropping a first-aid kit on the mattress, Dean stood before Castiel and untied the bandana. Castiel squeezed his eyes shut and tried to suppress a wince as Dean pressed his fingers around the wound, assessing the damage. The skin was tender and bruised, but the damage was barely even a mark compared to the beatings he took in the past.

It still hurt. He was tired and weak and mortal. He could not stay silent. In response, Dean trailed his hand down Castiel’s arm, running his thumb over the crook of his elbow. The sensitive skin tingled at the touch, a much more pleasant feeling than the one on his shoulder.

“It stopped bleeding, so that’s good. But I think I’ll stick a couple stitches in there, just in case.” Dean took what he needed from the kit. “This will sting.”

Castiel hissed when Dean touched the antiseptic wipe to his wound. Dean’s hands were practiced and gentle and he whispered soothing sounds as he cleaned away the dried blood. The exhaustion settled into Castiel’s bones and crashed over him like a wave. He fell forward, his forehead hitting Dean’s hip on the way down. He stayed there and, instead of pushing him away, Dean used his free hand to cup the back of Castiel’s neck.

“She was right, you know.” Dean’s voice was barely above a whisper, as if he were afraid to disturb the quiet.

“What?” Castiel was not sure if Dean could hear the word murmured against his hip, but he seemed to understand the question in it.

“About kindness and blankets.” Dean’s thumb ran circles of apology on Castiel’s neck as he stitched the injury. “But I also thought-- I mean. When I saw you like that it was-- _familiar_. Like, it didn’t freak me out because I knew it wouldn’t hurt me.” Dean tapped a cotton bandage over the wound.  “I mean, you were full on glowey, shadow-winged, thing of terror, dude. And it didn’t freak me out.” His task complete, Dean sighed and through the last of the supplies into the kit to sort out later. He did not move from where he stood, his hand returning to Castiel. “Why-- Why didn’t it freak me out?”

If he could, Castiel would stay in the quiet moment forever where he was close to Dean but he knew he could not. Castiel looked up, Dean’s face pale in the lamplight. “You’re freaked out because you’re _not_ freaked out?”

“God, it doesn’t even sound like a word anymore.” The mattress dipped as Dean dropped down beside Castiel, the springs squeaking in protest. “That thing knew me. It knew stuff about me that it shouldn’t. And then--” Dean did not finish the thought, throwing his hand in the air for emphasis. “What the hell is going on, Cas? And don’t tell me you don’t know.” 

“I’m sorry. I think I had all the answers at some point, but I don’t anymore.” Castiel cut off Dean’s protest in advance by placing his hand on Dean’s shoulder. “But I will tell you as much as I can. Ask.”

“What was that thing?”

“An angel.”

“Be serious, Cas.”

“I am quite serious, I can assure you.”

Dean bounced off the mattress and paced to the other end of the room, creating a wide gulf between the men. “No. No way.” He folded his arms across his chest and leaned his back against the wall, his chin set high and defiant.

The Fallen angel and the atheist hunter. What a pair they made. Castiel pinched the bridge of his nose, too tired to have a theistic debate. “Alright then. You don’t like my answer, then what’s yours?”

Dean faltered, his head dropping. “I don’t know! Some sort of supernatural weirdo. It always is.”

“Then what does that make me?” Castiel drew himself to his full height, crossing the room in a few quick strides. He loomed over Dean, leaving little space between them. “You humans always have a way to rationalize everything. That flickering light is just a bad wire. That sound was only the wolves. You, of all people, should know that’s not true.” Castiel never raised his voice but he threw open the floodgates, all the stress and tiredness cascading down, tempering his words. “You saw what happened in that church. What I am--was. Yet you bring me here, alone.” Dean tried to back away from Castiel, but he was stuck against the wall, forced to stare him in the face. Castiel did not let allow him to release his eyes. “Am I just a ‘weirdo’ as you call them?”

The air was thick between them as they stared each other down. In his anger, Castiel never noticed he pinned Dean to the exact same place he stood the night before. The surge of energy seeped out of Castiel. He did not have enough energy to fight this point anymore.

“Woah! Careful, buddy.” Dean caught Castiel as he slumped forward. “You need to sit.”

Castiel let Dean lead him back to the bed, Dean’s palm wide and broad against his back. He settled Castiel on the mattress, laying him on his uninjured side. Dean checked the bandage and gave a smile when it stayed clean.

Sitting on the foot of the bed, his back to Castiel, Dean studied his hands, twisting the fingers around each other. “For the record: you are pretty weird.”    

The bed was extremely comfortable. Much better than Castiel’s own. Mrs. Miller must have given Dean the better room. Castiel curled into himself, letting out a sleepy hum. He was not agreeing with Dean, but he acknowledged the attempt to break the tension. He fell, not as a streak of fire tumbling to earth, but into a cool pool of water that wrapped around him and made everything still.

The pool rippled, the waves peeling back at the sound of Dean’s voice. “Okay. I’ll tell you what: you get some sleep and then, in a couple hours, I’ll get you as far as the next town. After that-- well. I’ll figure it out when we get there.”

Castiel’s attempt to sit up was thwarted by Dean grabbing his leg. “I’m going to--”

“You’re going nowhere until I’m sure you won’t crack your head open on the pavement.” Castiel settled back onto the mattress with an insistent push from Dean. “I mean, I did some pretty good stitching back there. Be a shame if you messed it up.” Dean stood and shuffled around the room, picking up clothing to gather them in a pile on the table. “Seriously, though, you look like hammered crap. Get some sleep and then we’ll hit the road.”

Lulled by the soft sounds of Dean packing up, Castiel let the waters envelop him. He did not fights the lapping waves; he welcomed the embrace. He went under, falling into cool, clear darkness, and did not dream.


	12. Chapter 12

Awkward.

It was a strange word, really, and rather self demonstrative in its appearance when placed on the page. People would use it all the time when conversations ended and, in that little pause where no one knows what to say, everyone would stiffen and look away. _Oh,_ one person always had to say, _awkward._ They would sing it, draw out the vowels, and lift their voice until it was high and unpleasant. Castiel never understood the need to point out the silence. The quiet can be just as comfortable as a rolling conversation.

Sitting in the Impala, the engine rumbling for the better part of an hour, Castiel fought the absurd urge to sing _awkward._   _  
_

Castiel greeted the waking world with a wave of nausea so strong he was surprised he made it to the bathroom before anything happened. Dean just shook his head, muttering something about plastic and upholstery, before herding Castiel into his room to pack his meagre possessions into his threadbare backpack. It was the last thing Dean said before they left the parking lot.

They sat in the car, neither willing to speak, steadfastly refusing to look each other in the eye. At least Dean had the excuse of needing to drive. Castiel ended up using his coat as a pillow, trying to find a comfortable place against the window. He closed his eyes but he knew he never fooled Dean into thinking he was asleep. Dean never said anything, likely thankful he was not expected to speak.

Yet, they both had a million things they needed to say. The unsaid words bounced inside the cabin, hitting the seats, crashing against the window, and hopelessly vied for the attention of the men. They both ignored the words and sat in silence.

 _Awkward._             

The sun started to rise, changing the night sky from black to a dark blue, and still they said nothing. The longer they did not speak, the more Castiel’s head throbbed. The more the the light peeked over the horizon, the more the hum in the back of his head made itself known.

He wiped his palm across his forehead in a futile and pointless gesture-- how human it was-- as if he could remove the discomfort in his mind with a physical touch. The hum grew louder and more insistent as the Impala raced along the highway, demanding attention. For what, Castiel could not figure out. He only knew that there was something he needed to find along the highway, or perhaps he needed to avoid.

Either way, the feeling was the same: a tight squeeze in his chest that became tighter with each passing mile, the sweat on his palms he could not get rid of no matter how many times he wiped them on his jeans, and the constant ache in his head. The human body seemed to double up on their emotions with anxiety and anticipation acting as one in the same. Castiel wished he knew which one he felt.

Whatever lay ahead, they were close. The hum gave way to a song, the type of song one knows no matter how long it has been since it was last heard. Castiel knew all the notes, each crescendo and every rest. It was a song he had always known. He was created with it, the knowledge of it carved into his being as his father shaped him.

Little more than trees and power lines dotted the highway. Far too early for other cars to be on the road, they never crossed paths with a single truck. Still, despite the lack of exciting sights, Castiel stared out the window trying to find the source of the song. Dean still did not speak. If he noticed any change in his passenger, he did not acknowledge it.   

Most of the trees bracketing either side of the road were young, their leaves green and full of life due to the arrival of summer, their trunks long and thin. Castiel studied them. He knew the names of the trees, their native habitats, when the first of their type were created. None of that information helped him. He watched row after row of trees pass him by as the song grew louder, the feeling in his body becoming more intense.

The world glowed blue. Not the brilliant shine of heaven, but the dark colour which shrouded the Earth as it waited for the arrival of the sun. The encroaching light gave Castiel a little more to see, distracting him from the desire to grab another pill to stop the aching song from playing in his head. With better light, he could at least have more luck in his search. It would have been easier if he had any idea of what so desperately needed his presence.

A low whistle from Dean brought Castiel’s attention from the passenger’s window to the windshield. In the middle of the road stood a thick trunked redwood, its branches towering high above everything else. The road looked as if it once went straight towards the tree, but now the two lanes curved around either side of the trunk before returning to normal. It would have been much easier to remove the redwood. The road workers likely tried, but this tree would take much more than a saw to remove it.

“Stop the car.”

Dean jumped at the break in the long held silence. “Why?”

“Just do it.”

The men were forced back into their seats from the force of the brakes. The car had not even stopped by the time Castiel was out of his seat and standing in the shadows of the redwood.

This was it.

The song was loud. Castiel knew all of it. He sung it his entire life.

Castiel outstretched his hand, resting his palm against the rough bark. As soon as his flesh made contact, the hum in his head was appeased.

This was it.

This was the place Jimmy Novak died.

Running his palm down the tree trunk, Castiel knelt in the soft moss at the base. There rest a bundle of florist fresh flowers with an unadorned cross in the middle. It was a roadside memorial.

It had been a few years-- Castiel could not remember the exact number, just that he had experienced the relief of winter’s end on more than one occasion-- since Jimmy died. Yet, someone still remembered him. They mourned him still, setting out fresh flowers with the symbol of Heaven, even though it was an angel who had caused them such grief. 

“So, you’re a tree hugging hippie. That’s just--” Dean cut off his flippant remark, his voice filling with concern. “You okay?”

Castiel stooped over the memorial, one hand still on the tree while the other aimlessly traced the petal of an iris. He swallowed around the lump in his throat-- unsure of how it got there as it was clear of few moment ago-- before standing.

“I’m fine.”

Dean was unconvinced by Castiel’s feeble attempt at assurance, if the low, wordless sound he made as he moved beside Castiel was any indication. Castiel, under the long shadows of the tree, turned his head to Dean. Dean stood with his back to the encroaching sun, looking as if the sun rays burst from his core, his very soul.     

“I’ve seen this big guy a few time now,” Dean said, his hand reaching out, “always thought it was a little--”

***

This was it.

Now or never. Do or die. Was that how the humans put it?

They knew. He knew what was not meant to be known.

It was not God. It was never God. God had left the building.

He knew. He knew and they would take him, lock him away in that place-- the place no one remembered but everyone knew existed-- for years, centuries, possibly even millennia if they even released him at all. By then, it would be far too late. The choice was clear.

Every angel was created in two parts: the light and grace of Heaven. Pry the two apart and an angel was sullied, no longer a creation of God. Separating the parts of the angels was the ultimate punishment and the ultimate sin. The angel would become Fallen. They would be reviled by the denizens of Heaven and feared by the mortals on Earth. The most famous Fallen was the example everyone knew, used as the lesson in adherence to God. To become like Lucifer was to become hated.

He spread his wings, his grace echoing down the edges of his form as he gathered it in his core, the very centre of his being. The grace, now a concentrated ball of bright blue light, pulsated within him for a few short beats, aware of his intentions. It would not fight his decision, as they were one and the same.

With an appendage of light analogous to an arm and hand, he grabbed the at the grace, pushing into his form. He ripped into himself, creating an open wound, strands of grace bursting from him in the shape of a sun.

He screamed a loud, piercing wail that must have been felt far below. The Earth would respond in kind: fire, flood, famine. He did not know which; he only hoped this small damage would be forgivable if he could stop the end.

Creating fingers out of his light, he pressed beyond the ragged edges to gather his grace, kneading and rolling it until it was small enough to fit in his hand and be tightly encased in his fist. His light flashed a myriad of colours as he worked and his form pulsated with each wave of pain. Still he kept going.

It was time for the next step. He already took too long, his brothers must of heard his pain. The tear in his core was already raw, leaking light and colour into Heaven. He had no time to wait. He steeled himself for what he had to do next.     

He ripped. The grace came out with a screech and his light poured out of the wound, leaking blues, greens, and colours which had no name. He almost lost himself along with the light, but the power contained in his fist allowed him to focus through the pain. The sounds of his screams alerted the entire host of heaven. 

He bled. He was still an angel, but the sticky red substance seeping out of his wound told him his task was almost complete. There was hardly any time to contemplate the mark of mortality before Heaven disappeared and he was surrounded by sky.    

He fell.

And that was when the real pain hit.

Angels did not feel pain in the the way of the mortals. They could lose entire body parts and regenerate them just as quickly as they were removed. The pain he felt was new. This pain was mortal.

Falling at over one hundred thousands miles and hour, it was all he could do to hold the bright ball of grace to his chest. His light rapidly become flesh. His form, a haphazard mix of skin and light, still pulsated with the colours of his pain. Blood dripped from the wound in the centre of his form, the bruised and tattered skin flapping in the foce of the wind. The hole tore ever wider.

It hurt.

It hurts. It hurts. It hurts.

No.

He was a soldier, a warrior of God. At least, he was. A soldier does not fall apart in the midst of battle, no matter how literal the meaning.

He curled into himself, willing the grace to remain in his grasp and keep his form-- more flesh than light, now-- together. He searched as best he could when falling rapidly to the ground in a haze of mortal pain for a place to land, somewhere dark and deserted. Avoiding the blurred lights of human settlements, he angled his form towards a place of empty darkness.

The space was not as empty as he thought. A single car, with its low lamplights, was impossible to see from high above. It was too late to stop, for him and the driver.

He slammed to the ground, the asphalt peeling back, forming a giant hole. The grace escaped his hold through force of landing, and bounced across the broken edge of the road, forming and creating.

In the amount of time it took for a human to blink an eye, the redwood sprouted, as big and healthy as one grown over hundreds of years. There was no warning for the soon to be former angel, now trapped inside the tree, or the driver heading towards it.

The car crashed a moment later. He felt the impact from his place in the tree, the branches shuddering and the some of the leaves falling to the ground. There was a short shimmer of a soul, fading. Dying.

The driver knew time was short. Images of a human infant with blonde hair and bright eyes in the arms of an adult brunette flashed through his mind, wreathed in the light of love. He wanted them safe. _He_ wanted them safe. This family was known. It would take little convincing.

“I am Castiel, Angel of the Lord. Pledge yourself to my service and those you love will stay safe. You will rest in the fields of the Lord. Do you agree to my terms, James Novak?”  

“Yes.”

All was light.

***

Dean jerked his hand back, the rocks and dirt beneath his feet scattering as he backed away.

“What,” Dean started, his tone calm but his hand clutching at his belt for what Castiel assumed was a weapon, “was that?”

With a deep breath to steady himself, Castiel rose, his back to Dean. “Some type of Resonance, I think.”

Castiel did not expect that. He thought there was no more grace left to react or remember. He thought he used it all to push Jimmy into Heaven and to heal the body he claimed as his own. Even if any was left, the host of Heaven must have sought out the tree as soon as they noticed Castiel was gone, taking any remaining grace back home. Yet, a tiny speck of power stayed behind, just enough to hold on to the angel’s last memory. Why it only reacted when Dean touched the tree, Castiel did not know.   

“Oh thanks, that clears up everything.”

Castiel detected a note of sarcasm. He was starting to get that, now.

As the sun finally appeared over the horizon, the world looked as if it were bathed in red, the sky the colour of fire. When Castiel turned, a knife pressed against his throat, the fire of the world reflected in Dean’s eyes.

“Who are you?” Dean brought his free hand to his brow and shook his head. “I mean, _what_ are you?”

“I _am_ mortal-- human, like you. I was not always. I am a Fallen Angel.” Castiel inclined his head, feeling the sharp edge of the knife scrape against his skin. “But you already knew.”

The knife shook in Dean’s hand. “Cas, this is nuts!”

“I don’t disagree.”

“Then what am I supposed to do here?”

“That is your decision. That is your job, is it not? Hunting things?” Castiel moved closer to Dean, until the knife pressed into his skin. A stray red droplet ran down the edge of the knife. “So tell me, Dean,” Castiel said, pressing even closer to feel the sharp pain against his neck as he stared into the eyes of judgment. “Am I a thing?”

His words held no challenge, nor were they a declaration. They were a question, one which Castiel had searched for his entire existence, never finding an answer. So he placed himself upon the altar, laid his sins bare, and prepared for judgment.

The sun shone gold now, stirring a long forgotten memory in Castiel’s mind. The angel’s court-- for lack of a better term-- was always bathed in a disorienting golden light. Only rumours of the place existed among the angels, but Castiel had a hazy recollection of it. Perhaps memories of familiar places could only be removed so many times.

Only one judge, jury, and executioner existed in Heaven-- or so the angels were led to believe-- but now, on this patch of highway standing before his tree of creation, Castiel learned that the colour of judgment was not gold, but green.

Neither spoke. So many things needed to be said between them, begged to be acknowledged, but neither spoke. They only stared, one man to another, while the fate of Castiel danced on the edge of Dean’s blade.

Dean’s mouth opened, then closed without a single sound. The knife stuttered against Castiel’s skin, drawing a haphazard pattern on his neck. Castiel never flinched or looked away. He stood tall, his palms open and arms resting loosely at his sides. His eyes locked with Dean, Castiel waited.

Nature herself seemed to hold her breath as Castiel watched a gambit of emotions cross over Dean’s eyes. That was one of the many things Castiel liked about Dean, the very first thing he noticed. Dean’s soul was so clear, so bright and genuine, Castiel did not need his powers to see it. It was right there on his face.

Dean looked away first. He stared down at the memorial flowers and more emotion-- fear, sympathy, understanding, and everything all at once-- flashed over his face. With a silent puff of air, Dean’s shoulders slumped and the knife no longer pressed against Castiel’s neck. Another moment and Dean closed his eyes, sighing again-- this time with sound-- as he dropped the knife.

Castiel watched the knife fall. It flipped once, glinting with the colours of the sunrise, bounced of the dirt and clattered onto the asphalt. Nature let go of her breath as the sunrise ended, bringing with it the new day. The birds’ song jared Castiel, ending his long blank stare at the knife.

Life. The world teemed with it and Castiel was part of it.

The judgement was mercy.

Dean sat in his rumbling car, his fingers tapping on the steering wheel once again. Feeling Castiel’s stare, Dean jerked his head toward the passenger’s seat. Not an end. A beginning. When Castiel took his place beside Dean, he was greeted with a tight nod before the car rocketed down the highway.

Castiel left the knife behind and joined the land of the living.  


	13. Chapter 13

They made it to the next town, then the town after that, and then another. With a few hunts under his belt, Castiel was well on his way to becoming a _bona fide hunter_ , which Dean announced with a smirk and a pat on the back as he left Castiel behind in the sweltering diner. Castiel would have been offended, but he knew he would not be much help with interviewing concerned parents about their missing children.

The last few days had been difficult. Summer arrived and brought with it the heat of a fully powered sun. Castiel felt the temperature more intensely than any year before. It was hot, Castiel’s body ached in a way it never had in his mortal life and he did not have the people skills, anyway.

“More coffee, hun?”

Castiel nodded at the waitress, despite the fact his mug was only half-drained and ice cold. She filled it anyway as Castiel attempted to return her friendly, if tired, smile. He hoped his unspoken apology for using her table for hours was understood. Dean told him to wait, so shall he wait.

The plate before him had long since gone cold. He half-heartedly picked at the fries, nibbling at the ends despite the bile in his stomach. Even the thought of biting into the untouched burger made his stomach churn and he liked burgers.

Everything over the last few weeks had gone well. It took some time, but Castiel was able to rebuild the trust between him and Dean. However, he knew that they could never be the same friends who walked into that church.

Things had changed between the two of them. Castiel no longer hid who he used to be, though he tried to be mindful of how much truth Dean could handle at once. Taking their friendship outside the confines of the no-name town allowed Castiel to learn more about Dean, such as his love for classic rock but dislike of those who _sing from the hair,_ which evoked a rather strange image in Castiel’s mind.

Dean belonged on the open road behind the wheel of his baby. His smiles were a little wider, his hand on Castiel’s shoulder a little warmer, and his eyes a little brighter. Castiel liked the change but he was unsure as to what it meant. Most of his knowledge of how people acted together came from those he slept with or gave him drugs. Or both. Dean did neither. Whatever relationship they had was different. Sober.

At first, Castiel cursed his decision to leave behind the many pills he squirreled away in his room. His anger dissipated into opportunity, using the last few pills in his coat pocket to gradually wean himself off them. It had been a mere day since he depleted what was left of his stock. Now all the aches and pains usually dulled by the chemicals were catching up. The last time he quit was not this difficult, though that was only for a few days just to prove he could stop if he wanted.

Castiel’s lunch was still nearly intact by the time Dean slipped into the opposite seat, the furrow between his brows deeper than when he left.

Dean raised his eyebrows. “You alright, Cas? You look even worse than when I left you.”

Castiel tilted his head. Dean was actually worried.

“Right as rain,” Castiel said. “What did you uncover?”

There was no way Dean believed him but Dean’s face became grave at his question. “Rawheads.”

When Dean first found the case, he had become the most serious he had in weeks. Castiel suspected it had to do with the _big brother instinct_ he heard about on one of the many television programs Dean made him watch. He still remembered Dean’s look of horror when he said he never heard of _Star Wars._

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s already been a few days. We gotta act fast.” Dean took a deep breath. “Cas, I need you in the game. You sure you’re up for this?”

“Of course. What do you need?”

“Well, these bastards love themselves some creepy abandoned basements.” Dean pulled out his wallet to pay the bill and shook his head. “I’m sure there’s only, like, a few thousand around. Up for a light afternoon walk?”

***

Turns out, a small community on the fringes of the map has an impressive number of abandoned houses.

“You never take me anywhere nice,” Dean said as the exited their third half-flooded basement.

Castiel’s feet felt heavier than before, probably because his jeans were soaked up to his ankles. “Oh? Where would you prefer to go?”

“There’s gotta be some kinda monster on the beach somewhere.”

“There’s plenty: hydra, Loch Ness, Ogopogo.”

“Ogopogo?”

“Canadian. He’s quite polite.”

In lieu of a reply, Dean shook his head before returning to the car, his mouth twitching as if he were to smile before his frown returned. Though Dean hid it behind lighthearted remarks, Castiel could tell he was concerned. Research had taken much too long-- the computer system was down and the men had to sift through what felt like thousands of records-- and they set out just after dark. They were running out of night and they both knew that more delays could result in the diference between a returned child or one lost forever.

On the best of days, Dean drove fast. The Impala gave the impression of eating the highway as the scenery flew by in an incomprehensible blur. That was most days. Now, the car devoured the landscape, leaving only a streak of light visible when Castiel looked out the windows. Castiel hoped Dean knew where he was going and that they would not have to turn. They accomplished what was likely a ten minute drive in three. The Impala lurched to a stop in front of a crumbling farmhouse: the fourth on the list of their five most suspicious locations.   

Castiel joined Dean at the car’s trunk, the two tasers on top of the arsenal for easy access. Dean stuffed his in the back of his jeans and took the other one, flipping it end over end to present the handle to Castiel. When Castiel reached out to take the weapon, Dean held fast until Castiel tugged it out of his hand.

“Just be careful with it, alight?” Dean hesitated as he spoke, his body a line of solid tension. “Only shoot if you have to.”

“I know the rules.”

After Dean decided to keep Castiel around, he declared his new companion needed to be useful. Dean took Castiel to a secluded clearing in the woods and handed him a gun. Castiel hit all the bottles, much to Dean’s surprise. The math behind hitting a target was easy for Castiel to calculate and use and, besides, he was a soldier who had fought for longer than humans had known about fire. The simple act of hitting a target was not an issue for him.

When he told Dean as much, Dean became quiet and muttered something about Castiel being the _newbie_ who had to follow his lead. Castiel did not argue. It was not until afterwards Castiel realized he made Dean uncomfortable with the flippant remark to is past. Tact was not one of Castiel’s virtues. One of his dealers told him that once.

“Yeah, I know, but I also know you’re not playing with a full deck here,” Dean said.

“I don’t have any cards.”

Dean rubbed his palm across his forehead. “No, that’s…” He slammed the trunk closed, the sound echoing in the empty night. “I’m not doing that bit now-- no time. Just stay behind me and try not to drown in your own sweat.”

Weapon out, Dean lead Castiel to the back of the house. Then, with a few stiff yanks from both men, they opened the exterior cellar doors. The combined light from the two flashlights revealed a sloping set of rotten wooden stairs with a pool of water shining at the base.

“More water. Great,” Dean said before taking a few tentative steps down.

Dean turned to Castiel, then, with a finger to his lips, indicated that Castiel follow. They placed their feet carefully to minimize the squeaking and the chance of falling through the more rough looking steps.

Halfway down the stairs, the smell of mold and mildew assaulted Castiel. He descended into a room encased in dirt, cut off from the sky above. Castiel drew in a shallow gasp, feeling as if the very air in his lungs were sucked out through the force of the wall squeezing him tight, trapping him.

Near the bottom of the stairs, Dean paused to look behind him. A short flash of concern shone in his eyes when the flashlight washed over him, but anything he would have done was interrupted by the sound of weeping.

Dean leapt off the last step and darted towards the sound, Castiel close behind. Among the various rusting farm equipment and beer cans, a low two door cabinet rest against the wall. It was the perfect size to fit a child. With a nod to Castiel and an indication to stay alert, Dean opened the cabinet door, its rusty hinges wailing in protest.

“My brother. Where--” A girl’s voice, distraught.

The girl’s words were interrupted by a deep monstrous growl erupting from the shadows on the other side of the cellar. Castiel trained his weapon toward the sound, ready to strike at any moment. No beast emerged from the shadows, just snarls and circling footsteps. He stood at the ready but Dean did not join him. Castiel chanced a glance behind him.

It was a disturbing tableau. The child’s cheeks shone with tears as she bit her lip to suppress her pained whimpers. Dean leaned over the girl, pressing his overshirt into her side, his hands stained with blood. Before Castiel looked away, Dean peered up at him, the whites of his eyes taking over his face.

Seeing the unguarded fear for the girl in Dean’s eyes spurred Castiel into action. The brave girl, despite her wide eyes and shaking body, steadfastly refused to allow any sound to escape her lips. She knew she need to stay quiet for Castiel to help her. He was going to save her, pull her out of the dank earth, and return her to the surface. With a hand gesture Dean likely never noticed, Castiel creeped his way forward. He deliberately placed his feet on dry ground as he sought the rawhead. 

The shadows whispered along the wall, converging at the corner furthest from Dean and the girl, a small blessing. Castiel inched forward and took steady breaths, listening and watching for movement. He only had one shot and he had to make it count. He could not see the monster, but he heard its heavy breathing and felt its oppressive force. He just needed to get close enough to see it. He took another step, then another, closing in on the creature.

Too close. Curse the damn darkness and weak human eyes. The rawhead surged forward with a howl, landing a devastating blow to Castiel’s chest. Out of the many ways Castiel traveled in his long life, flying across the floor with the air forced from his lungs was not his favorite. He landed against the opposite wall with a splash, his weapon and flashlight forced from his hands.

Castiel rolled onto his side and tried to catch his breath. The flashlight shining out of a dirty puddle cast moving shadows on the wall, alerting Castiel to the monster’s presence. He scrambled to sit up, his boot knocking against his weapon. It landed in a dry patch when he fell. Still sitting, Castiel spun himself around and grabbed the taser just as the rawhead lept. Castiel aimed at the black mass he hoped was its chest.

It hit. The electricity surged from the point of impact, working its way up the creature’s elongated body. The beast screamed, its agony so deep, the sound cut into Castiel’s heart. The rawhead hit the ground, leaving behind a pile of smoking ash.  

Castiel finally understood the meaning of _creaking bones_ as he tried to stand. The dull ache in every one of his joints became a throb with each heartbeat. He crossed his arm over his chest, his shoulder providing the brunt of the pain. The wound from the angel blade, while healed, still caused him trouble. He felt like a rusty hinge when he did a quick check around the basement, but he made sure no threats remained. A girl’s cry behind him remind him to check for survivors.

“Cas, she’s hurt,” Dean said as soon as Castiel kneeled beside him. Dean’s voice was tiny, as if it were sucked into the surrounding earth as soon as the words left his lips.

The shirt Dean pressed against the wound was soaked through. When Dean moved his hands, there was a sickening squelch and the girl jumped, a ragged cry ripped from her lips. She cried for her mother, her father, and, most of all, her brother. She wanted her family, but all she had were two strangers with blood soaked hands.

Not that long ago, all Castiel needed was to touch her forehead, a single finger would do, and she would be healed. Years ago, a few thousand at least, he found a child on the mountain. Her people had cast out her baby sister, born with a black mark on her face. The older child kneeled on the rock, her legs scraped and bruised, and hunched over the baby. She wrapped in her only cloak around the baby to protect her from the biting wind.

That girl could have had anything. She was the daughter of a high ranking member of her people. All she had to do was walk away when the council left her sister on the mountain. She could have had anything but, under the cover of night, she went to that mountain. Her body battered from her journey, she sat shivering from cold and fever as she leaned over the baby.

Castiel hovered above and watched as this child, in pain and poor health, smiled down at the bundle of cloth in her lap. 

Fascinated, Castiel lowered himself to Earth. Against orders, always against orders, he sat next to the sisters, invisible to mortal eyes, and touched each of their foreheads. The older child lifted her head, reinvigorated by her restored health, and stared Castiel directly in the eye.

Whenever Castiel pictured human love, he saw those shining dark eyes.

Castiel’s useless, fleshy, human hand only felt the sweat beading on the injured girl’s forehead. The girl looked at him with the same eyes as the mountain girl and Castiel understood.

“Do you know where he is?”

“Come on, man, you know--”

“There.” The single word, spoken with such certainty, such conviction, caused the men to follow the path of her pointed finger.

Castiel smoothed the sweat soaked hair back from the girl’s warm forehead and nodded. “Dean, take her to the car. You will need to find a hospital.”

“No! I’m not leaving without--” The girl’s protest was cut short when she tried to sit up. Dean scooped the girl up, mindful of her injuries, and gingerly made his way to the stairs. The girl protested with every step, each cry punctuated with a pained sound.

At the base of the stairs, the child made a weak attempt to escape Dean’s arms, only causing the man to secure his hold. Castiel stopped them and reached out, a single finger to her forehead. She stared back at him with the mountain girl’s eyes.

“I’ll find him,” Castiel said.

Even as the girl leaned back, satisfied, Dean’s head snapped up so quickly, Castiel heard it click.

“She needs help, like, a day ago.”

“Then you’d better hurry.”         

With a firm push against Dean’s back, Castiel forced the pair to step up the staircase. Castiel stood at the base of the stairs as the two ascended, squinting as they emerged into the predawn light. Pressing a hand against the cool concrete of the wall, Castiel shone his flashlight into every corner and peered into the silent shadows.

Logically, the child’s odds of survival were low. Castiel circled the entire basement and found it empty. Still, Castiel continued to try. It was, after all, a very human thing to do. He may no longer be able to heal with a simple touch, but he could use his limited human hands to search for a young girl’s brother, no matter how long it took.

He completed one last sweep, stopping at the base of the stairs once again. Standing in the pool of light shining from the open door above him, Castiel stared at the dull grey wall in front of him. He flattened his palms against it to feel for any fissures or cracks. He even pressed his ear to it, in hope he could hear something. There was nothing.

Dean was right, the girl needed healing yesterday. He hoped they made it to the hospital. He hoped they were not too late to help her. He hoped his decision to stay behind did not cause any damage to her chances of survival.

He hoped for a lot of things.

Castiel was unbearably _human._ With his powers, Castiel could find the boy-- or at least be certain he were alive-- in the blink of an eye. A low growl built in his throat, his blood pulsated in his ears, and his body temperature surged. His heart felt like it was stuck in a vice, slowly squeezing the life out of him. The rest of his body ached from the events of the day and his hands shook for want of a pill to dull it all.

His growl turned into a yell; his yell turned into a kick straight at the wall. It did nothing to make him feel better. Castiel dropped to his knees with a hiss, the new pain in his foot adding to his discomfort.

The flashlight dropped from his hand, bouncing into a puddle. In the movement of the light, Castiel saw something that gave him pause. He grabbed the flashlight again and tried to replicate its movements.

Between the staircase and the wall, the concrete had chipped away, leaving a small gap. It was just enough to fit a small child, though it would be a tight squeeze. Castiel approached the area, keeping his eyes on the space, hoping it was not empty. He could only wedge his shoulder into the gap, but it was enough. The light reflected off the pale face of a scared boy. The boy shielded his eyes and tried to shrink away from Castiel.

“It’s okay,” Castiel said. “You’re safe now.”

The boy, eyes now adjusted to the light, peered at the strange man half-stuck in his hiding space. He cocked his head to the side, not uttering a sound, and stared at Castiel with alert but uncomprehending eyes.

Either the boy was not able to understand Castiel or he was unable to hear the words. Castiel hoped it was the latter. Earning himself and impressive scratch on his forearm, he managed to shift the flashlight into his other hand. He angled it so enough light reached into the hollow.

He only had one free hand, so he hoped the boy could spell. He looked old enough to be in school but Castiel was a terrible judge of age. Just one more uncertainty, one more human hope, to add to the list.

 _H-E-L-P._ He manipulated his hand into the letters, taking his time with each movement to make sure the boy could see it in the low light. Then he used his thumb to indicate himself. Finally, he pointed to the boy.

The boy sat up straighter, recognition in his eyes. _S-I-S,_ he spelled, his letters sloppy due to his haste. 

Castiel nodded. _S-A-F-E._

A smile took over the boy’s face, a healthy pink returning to his cheeks. He scrambled out of the hole, chips of concrete clinking against the floor as he slid. The boy shoved Castiel’s arm out of the way, forcing Castiel out of the gap, lest he lose it. Wearing dirty clothes and paying no mind to his scratched face, the boy stood with his hands on his hips.

The siblings both had eyes that betrayed their strong souls. As Castiel looked into those eyes he saw himself on the mountain, staring at the girl who would become queen. Past and present merged, angel and human, but through it all he was still Castiel.   


	14. Chapter 14

One phone call to Dean and a generous taxi driver later, Castiel and the boy stood at the hospital entrance. The boy, Dave, as he proudly spelled out for Castiel on the trip to the hospital, pulled at Castiel’s sleeve. Dave tried to bring them closer to the automatic doors, but Castiel did not budge. He was told to wait. He put a hand on the boy’s head, who vibrated with impatience and excitement.

They did not have to wait too long. The doors opened with a swish and Dean appeared. His face was tired and dirty, and he still wore the bloodstained clothing from the night before. However, he wore a smile and the light in his eyes rivaled the bright summer sun.

“Hey,” Dean said to the boy, “wanna see your family?”

Dave blinked at Dean’s outstretched hand and took a step back, bumping into Castiel. Catching him by the shoulders, Castiel turned the boy around and kneeled down so they were at the same height.

 _It’s okay. He is a friend,_ Castiel signed, _He will take you to your family._

The boy pursed his lips and crossed his arms across his chest. Castiel had to smile. Dave had the same stubborn, proud look Dean had when he wanted things to go his way.

 _You are brave._ Castiel reached out to pat the boy’s cheek. _Your sister needs that._

With a sigh, Dave uncrossed his arms and, after a deep nod, took Dean’s hand.

Apparently, being human meant creaky knees. Castiel braced himself to stand, nearly toppling over when the full force of an eight year old boy hit him in the chest. The boy squeezed Castiel tight, his face buried in Castiel’s shoulder. It took a moment, Castiel was not used to innocent affection, but he remembered to return the hug.

Over the tuft of hair tickling Castiel’s nose, he locked eyes with Dean. Castiel had no words or what he saw there, no matter how many languages he spoke, but it was soft and unguarded. Dean always seemed to have something on his face to speak of his constant tension, such as a wrinkle in his forehead or a hard line at the corner of his mouth, often a result of the hunter’s life he lead. But, just for a second, all that concern seemed to melt away when he looked at Castiel.

The boy’s weight was gone almost as soon as it appeared. He ran past Dean and tapped his foot as he waited in the threshold of the door. Dean laughed, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he smiled, and followed him. Before turning around, Dave brought his fingers to his chin and then out.

 _Thank you._      

***

The Impala sat in the parking garage, surrounded by a few dusty old hatchbacks. Castiel leaned against the Impala’s back bumper, waiting for Dean to finish talking to the police. Dean gave Castiel the option to be part of the story, but Castiel declined to be involved at all. Dean’s charm and charisma would make any wild tale he fed to the police believable. Castiel was not nearly as talented. Besides, Castiel and cops rarely mixed well. A combination of illegal substances and vagrancy did not make for pleasant interactions in the past. How Dean could explain away the sudden appearance of the boy, Castiel did not know. It was no longer his problem, however.

He waited, which was a task at which he was good. He had a few thousand years of practice, after all. Still, the parking garage was damp and chilly and the concrete wall reminded he far too much of the cellar. He couldn’t wait to be out of this town.

Every minute felt like hours as he stood in the stagnant air with his arms across his chest, trying to rub life back into his arms. It did little to help, the little hairs along his forearms standing on end. Castiel knew he was being watched, but he stayed where he stood as he assessed the danger.

A professionally dressed woman materialized from behind a pillar, her heels clicking with each step. She smiled when Castiel saw her. Castiel straightened his posture and shifted his weight onto the the balls of his feet, his hand curling around the smooth handle of the blade stashed in his coat.

“You know, your friend’s in there taking all the credit,” she said, stopping within arm’s reach of Castiel. Her eyes darted towards his hidden hand, smile never leaving her face.

Castiel tilted his head in an attempt to understand the woman’s words. “Who are you?”

The woman stared at him with the eyes of the mountain girl. “I’m here to thank you for saving my kids. That is, if you don’t shoot me first.”

“Oh. My apologies.” Castiel let go of the weapon and let his hand fall by his side.

The woman sighed. “I swear, you hunters are a paranoid bunch.” She held out her hand. “Sally.”

“Cas. Uh, Castiel.” He took her manicured hand, her grip strong as they shook hands.

While Sally was not an angel, the fact she returned his hand was proof enough, she carried herself like one. She held an aura of tight control, the type of person who was certain in her mission. She would have been a great commander. Castiel saw where the children inherited their strong souls.  

“Dave can’t stop telling me about the person who saved him. He’s so excited that someone outside school can talk to him. But your partner doesn’t sign.”

“It was nothing.”

“Nothing? Don’t sell yourself short.” Sally shook her head, her voice cracking. “My children are alive because of you and your friend. I--” She took a deep, shaky breath and, with one quick snap of her head, she was back to business. “You know, I’ve represented a decent number of hunters in my time. Kept quite a few of you out of prison.” She smiled and there was warmth to it, her eyes misting at the corners. “So, stay safe out there. We need more guys like you.”

Gratitude. Castiel did not know how to react to it. Sally stepped closer, her arms reaching out for him. In the split second she wrapped her arms around him, Castiel caught a glimpse of the loving mother she was at home. He could feel the warmth of her kindness in the embrace and he did not know what to do with her open affection. Castiel went still, his body stiff, wanting to ease into her but unsure if it was appropriate. Sally, unfazed by Castiel’s reaction, kissed his cheek as she let go.

“Thank you,” she said.

She turned on her heel and walked back to the hospital, sparing Dean an apologetic glance as she nearly ran into him as she turned the corner. Castiel watched her go.

Is this what he was looking for? A warm bubble built in his chest, swelling at the displays of affection. The smiles, the hugs, the words of gratitude were all signs that he had helped, had touched a human soul in a very mortal way. A family could continue their lives together because of him. The effect was intoxicating. It was better than any drug, any act of meaningless sex. The simple ability to put a smile on another person’s face was enough to evoke the feeling.

Dean, as tired as he looked, was able to spare Castiel a smile with a sardonic glint in his eye. “Well, well. Look who got himself a new girlfriend.”

The comment was teasing, but there was something in the way Dean said the last word that made Castiel curb his knee jerk denial. “Is that jealousy I hear?”

“What?” Summer freckles stood out against Dean’s flushed cheeks as he stood frozen for the length of a heartbeat. “No.” He threw his head back, trying to laugh off his reaction, but the flush remained as he unlocked the car.

Smiles were fun to give to other people but sometimes it was enjoyable to make his own. “That’s good. No need to worry-- I told her I was taken.”

“T-taken?” Mostly surprise but Castiel swore her heard a note of panic. Wishful thinking, most likely.  

“Yes. I said I was-- how did you put it to the girl at the bar?-- married to the job.” Chin in hand, Castiel watched Dean from across the Impala’s hood.

“I didn’t--” Dean stopped, deflated, as murky memories surfaced. “Oh. I did.” Looking up from the keys in his hand, Dean broke out into a wide grin. “Wait. You’re actually messing with me.”

“I believe that is the correct term, yes.”

“Dude, I am way too tired to deal with the fact that you do, in fact, joke.”

“I joke.”

“Whatever, Cas. Get in the car.”


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Withdrawal hits Cas hard in this chapter

A soft rain tapped against the motel window, doing absolutely nothing to alleviate the summer heat. In fact, it only made it worse. Sweat pooled at the back of Castiel’s neck and his shirt clung to his skin. Castiel pulled at the fabric until he could no longer stand it, pushing past Dean without a word into the bathroom, a fresh set of clothes in hand.

He tried not to take too long. Last time he pushed his way to the front of the line, Dean spent the rest of the day complaining about Castiel _hogging all the hot water_ which resulted in Castiel being subject to a terrible show about doctor who did not know the difference between a cold and the flu. Castiel learned not to get between Dean and his shower after that.

The bathroom door creaked open and Castiel prepared himself for a comment from Dean. He did not expect to see Dean rooted to the same place as before.

Dean did not stir when Castiel stepped close to him. Dean stared down at his hands, palms up with his forearms held loosely to his chest. He stared at them, his brows drawn together and the tip of his tongue caught between his front teeth. Castiel stood before Dean with his hands clasped behind his back and waited with only the sound of the rain on the window to mark the passage of time.

Dean looked up, his mouth forming unuttered words. A few abbreviated sounds from abandoned sentences escaped him when he tried again. He closed his eyes and cleared his throat. When he reopened his eyes, Castiel was transported back to the cellar. Dean had the same look now as he did when he leaned over the wounded girl.

“There’s a kid’s blood on my hands.” While his words were flat and emotionless, Dean’s voice was as thin as paper.

Castiel placed a hand on Dean’s cheek, feeling cold, clammy skin. “Who is alive because of you.”

“But what about-- what if--”

A tremor ran through Dean’s body before he tipped forward. Castiel caught him by the shoulders and guided Dean to sit on one of the beds. Dean curled into himself, leaving his hands open in his lap as Castiel checked his temperature again. His pulse thumped rapidly under Castiel’s fingers.     

Since Castiel could not convince Dean to lay down-- the man seemed determined to stare a hole into his palms-- Castiel grabbed his trench coat from where he draped it over a chair and pulled it tight over Dean’s shoulders. Then Castiel entered the bathroom to return with a wet washcloth. The space between the beds was so sparse Castiel’s knees knocked against Dean’s as he sat opposite him. Castiel leaned forward and took one of Dean’s hands in his own.

Castiel felt Dean’s gaze on him as he took the washcloth and carefully wiped away the dirt and blood from Dean’s hand. From the fingertips to the wrist, Castiel cleansed the skin, slow and meticulous, until he was absolutely sure only pink skin remained.

They sat in silence as he worked, the rain picking up behind him. Castiel paid the weather no mind. Instead, he focused on Dean’s hand, mapping out the shape of his fingers, the lines on his palm, and the rough calluses that correlated with the use of a gun. He noticed all the features as he worked, wanting to commit them to memory, to remember the warmth as they lay in Castiel’s grasp.

“Look at me, getting all worked up over a win,” Dean said. His voice was still quiet but, when Castiel glanced up, he could see colour returning to his face.

“It’s okay, Dean.”

“No, it’s not. I mean, if I’m gonna get all woozy over a win, then--”

Castiel stopped him by squeezing his hand. “Dean, it’s okay. You’re human. You’re supposed to feel things.”

Dean sighed, his fingers curling briefly but he never pulled away. “The kids are the hardest. They should just be kids, y’know? The monsters under the bed should just be shadows, not real. Hell, I wish--”

There was a brief pause as Castiel started on Dean’s other hand. “You wish what?”

For a while, Castiel believed Dean was not going to answer. “We-- dad and me-- tried to keep the truth from Sam when we were growing up. Just wanted him to be a kid for a little longer. He got to be a kid.”

Castiel set the washcloth aside, now covered in dirt and blood, but he did not let go of Dean’s hand. While Dean looked better than before, he was still pale and Castiel wanted to keep Dean grounded. Castiel anchored Dean at the point of contact to the present, as a reminder that he was not stuck in the past.

“Not for long enough, though,” Dean continued. “This life sucks the innocence outa kids pretty fast.”

Running his thumb over the inside of Dean’s wrist, Castiel asked, “What about you?”

Dean lift his head, allowing Castiel to see his eyes as he remembered. “I was four years old when I pulled my brother out of a burning building. Haven’t been a kid since.”

The haunted look on Dean’s face made Castiel regret his question. His murmured apology felt inadequate.

“S’alright. All in the past.” Dean grinned but it was ragged at the edges. “Anyway, we should be talking about you. You did good out there. I think it’s time I promote you to a full-fledged hunter.”

None of that mattered to Castiel. He squeezed Dean’s hand. “Dean.”

“I’m alright. Seriously.” Dean tried to smile again. Castiel was not convinced. “Besides, since I’m doing the whole ‘spill my guts’ thing, I got something I wanna say.”

A battle for another day. “What would that be?”

Dean chewed his bottom lip before he spoke. “So, you know I have an issue with the whole-- uh-- God stuff.”

“I’ve noticed.”

Castiel tensed. While he stopped hiding his past from Dean, the words _God_ or _angel_ had not once come up in conversation since they drove away from that tree. They danced around the issue, skirting along the edges of the biggest problem between them. Castiel knew they would need to address the _God stuff_ at some point, but he enjoyed the easy camaraderie he and Dean shared.

The friendship they shared was different than any he had experienced in his long life. His fellow garrison members were his brothers and sister in arms who fought together until their last breath but they cared little about who they were outside the battlefield. His human companions always left as soon as the money and drugs ran dry.

Dean was a brother in arms, a mentor, a friend. Dean had stayed. He learned who Castiel was and had stayed. Castiel was not ready to see him leave, to let go of the bond that has been slowly growing between them.  He was not ready to let go.

“Well, that’s because of shit like today,” Dean said. “No God: bad shit just happens.” He waved his free hand in the air. “There is a God: why the hell does he let a little girl get hurt like that?”

“I wish I knew,” Castiel muttered.

He let go of Dean’s hand and stared down at the empty space between the beds, unable to look Dean in the eyes.

Undeterred, Dean continued, “But I am a practical guy. I believe in what I can see.”  Dean hooked a finger under Castiel’s chin, forcing him to look up. “And today, I saw you save lives. You put that family back together. And that--” Dean’s other hand snaked around Castiel’s elbow. “So Castiel, Cas, whoever you say you are--” Dean leaned forward until he was only a breath away from Castiel. “--I believe in you.”     

They met in between. Dean closed the distance, sealing his lips against Castiel’s. It was the last reaction Castiel expected, so it took a brief moment of coaxing from Dean to respond. After the initial shock, Castiel responded in kind. Bringing his hands to Dean’s face, Castiel angled him to better taste him. Dean let out a soft, encouraging noise, urging Castiel onward.

Castiel wanted-- oh, he wanted-- to push Dean down into his bed, straddle his hips and sink down on top of him. He wanted to take everything Dean would give to figure out just how far they could go.

He wanted to, but he did not. It was not time for either of them. The bond between them was too new, too fragile. Castiel did not want to have him one night only to lose him in the morning like all the others before. Castiel pulled away from Dean with a soft pop, resting his forehead against Dean’s as they panted.

Dean’s eyes remained closed as he kept his hands on Castiel, as if he were trying to will the world to stay in that quiet moment. Castiel ran his thumb against Dean’s cheek, the pad rasping against his stubble.

Whatever this was, it was different than anyone Castiel had kissed before. His heart pounded, his blood rushed in his veins, and his body demanded touch. Castiel did not know how to react.

Usually he just went along with the other person in these sort of situations: get drunk, high, or both then fall into someone’s bed and leave first thing in the morning. He figured that was how human courtship worked. Dean showed him that things could be different. Castiel wanted it to be different. He wanted to wake up the next morning and stay with the person beside him, not feeling any regret. He did not know how to do that, however. All he knew was how to leave. Castiel pulled away from Dean because he was not ready wake up without him.

“It’s okay, Cas.”

The way Dean said his name stirred something within Castiel that demanded he lean in and take what he wanted. Vivid images of skin, hands, and those perfect lips flashed through Castiel’s mind. He already leaned back into Dean’s space before he caught himself. Castiel left a soft, chaste kiss on Dean’s lips before he let go, stationing himself in the middle of his separate bed and folding his legs under him so they would no longer touch. 

Left in the empty space between the beds, Dean sighed and straightened his posture. “Did-- did I do something wrong?” He rubbed the back of his neck, muttering, “Better than last try.”

Castiel brought his knees to his chest and wrapped his arms around him in an attempt to keep himself together. He needed to process what happened, but his body had finally given up. He lay his cheek on his knee and closed his eyes. Shirt already soaked through and the hair at the back of his neck damp, Castiel found it impossible to focus.

His skin prickled with need and his hands shook as he tried to find a reply but all he could think about was one thing. It would be the solution to his aching body, rushing thoughts, and sleepless nights. Just one. That’s all it would take.

All he could see when he closed his eyes was a little white pill.

“Cas? Hey!”

The hand at his cheek acted as a cool anchor, releasing Castiel from his thoughts and back into the motel room. When Castiel opened his eyes as he stared into the green: cool, caring, concerned.

“I appear to be experiencing withdrawal,”  Castiel said, unable to hide the bitter weariness in his voice.

Dean ran his thumb along the angle of Castiel’s cheekbone. “Did you really expect not to?”

“No.”

But that was a lie.

Angels did not suffer. They never harboured illness and they healed from the most grievous wounds. In the worst cases, when an angel could not be saved, the rit zien were deployed. Heaven called it a mercy. The ones who suffered, those past saving, did not do so for long. Those that could not be fixed were disposed.    

A small part of Castiel still held onto that belief. Some part of him still expected to wake to an angel over his bed telling him his battle was over.

Castiel placed his hand over Dean’s and leaned into the touch, allowing it to bring him back to the mortal realm. The soft patter of raindrops behind him served as a reminder that an entire world waited out there, one he vowed to protect. He could not give up here.

“You-- You didn’t--” Castiel’s throat was dry. He wet his lips and tried again. “You did this right. Very right.” He turned his head, brushing his lips against Dean’s palm. “But you deserve more than this. You deserve someone…”

The image of the perfect family, the kind he saw on television, flashed through Castiel’s mind: the perfect man, the perfect wife, the perfect kids. The dream life, or so the shows had taught him. Castiel did not have a house, or a garage for the car, or a fence to hold in a green lawn. He could never give Dean those things, the things humans seemed to want. He was just a broken angel and a fractured person. He was not--

“Whole,” Castiel concluded.

Dean cupped Castiel’s neck. “Cas. That’s not-- I’m not--” He broke off with a frustrated sigh, his fingernails digging into Castiel’s flesh. “This conversation is not over. When you’re better we’re gonna talk about this.” Taking his hand away, Dean settled on the bed, his back to Castiel. “We’re going to talk about this,” Dean said in falsetto, punching the pillow. “Oh, if Sammy could hear me now he’d--” Another punch, then Dean grew quiet. 

Castiel remained in the same place long after Dean’s breathing grew deep with sleep. Exhaustion seeped into every part of Castiel-- he could not recall a time when he felt rested-- but it did not matter. Castiel could not sleep.

The heat kept him awake or his body became sore if he lay in one spot for too long. Castiel learned to live with a few hours of sleep here and there. Even when he did sleep, his dreams had grown more vivid, waking him up in a confused swirl of colours leaving him more tired than before.

He could not sleep, but he still tried. He lay on his back, watched the early morning sun play across the ceiling and listened to the rain. When he closed his eyes, he remembered the feel of Dean’s lips against his own.

***

A few hours later, Castiel curled into a ball on the bathroom floor, his arms nearly embracing the toilet. Castiel knew he made an absurd picture: thunder rumbled as the former angel kneeled, as if praying, before a toilet. He would laugh if he did not find it so pathetic.

His body forced him to expel all the little demons he imbibed the last few years, over and over again. Castiel would rather fight an _actual_ demon right now. He lurched again and reached for the handle to flush the sickness away. Make that ten demons. Maybe even twenty. Armed with nothing but his teeth.

Castiel leaned back against the bathtub, the porcelain lip digging into his shoulder blades. To say his life was a mess would be an enormous understatement. He ran both hands through his hair and rest his forehead on his knees, willing his body back to health with sheer determination. He was not giving up on a bathroom floor covered in green and yellow tiles. That would just be adding insult to injury.

Angels were not supposed to care about things like tiles. Angels were not supposed to care about anything other than the mission. They obeyed and followed God’s unquestionable will. Castiel questioned. Castiel cared. He considered the humans caught in the crossfire in the battle between Heaven and Hell, so he pushed until he uncovered the truth. God was gone.

The questions caused his downfall. The compassion could be salvation.

The catalyst to his newfound determination sat beside him. Dean wrapped an arm around Castiel’s shoulders. Castiel leaned into Dean, reaching his hand across Dean’s body to rest it on his hip. When Dean did not complain, Castiel rest his head on the other man’s chest, listening to the steady _thump_ of his heartbeat. As Dean ran his hand through Castiel’s hair, Castiel focused on its steady drumbeat to drown out the rest of the noise. The heartbeat did not have the grand, deafening rhythm of Heaven, but it was steadfast and comforting. Human.    


	16. Chapter 16

Castiel woke up on the wrong side of the room. He squinted at his own empty bed, the covers still rumpled from previous sleepless nights. A few days had passed and Castiel finally felt well enough to move.

Rolling onto his other side, Castiel saw Dean curled at the edge of the bed, as far as he could get without falling off, still dressed in the t-shirt and jeans from their last hunt. Castiel reached out to touch Dean’s elbow, just to assure himself that the man was real. Dean was solid and warm. When Castiel pulled his hand back, Dean mumbled a disgruntled sound before curling himself into a tighter ball. Castiel picked up the sheets kicked to the floor and pulled them over Dean’s shoulders on his way to get dressed.

No wonder Dean wanted to sleep. He spent the last few days on the bathroom floor with Castiel, no matter how many times Castiel tried send him away. When his mind was set, Dean could be quite obstinate.

Too many days on the cold tile later, Dean scooped up Castiel and pushed him into bed. They both fell into an exhausted sleep soon after. Castiel smiled at the form under the blankets and decided to let him sleep.

The biggest priority on Castiel’s list was finding the biggest cup of coffee he could buy. Coffee was truly the greatest human discovery. The fast food joint connected to the hotel handed him a bucket of coffee advertised as a cup. This was a place of wonders.

Castiel did not want to remain encased in four walls any longer, so he took his bounty to the park only a short walk away. He settled comfortably on an old, wooden park bench, lifting his face towards the morning sunshine.

Mostly mothers with strollers and a few dog walkers were outside, taking advantage of the good weather after the storm. The crisp morning air filled Castiel’s lungs as he leaned back, sipping his coffee.

Watching humanity never got old. Each person who passed by on the footpath hinted at a their story, like the mother with the slow gait and red rimmed eyes, or the man who ran past with steely determination as he counted his breaths. So many souls slipped by him, touching his own life for a short moment. So many souls that he tried-- he always tried-- to help.

He did not know when he lost sight of that goal.

“You know, I don’t know why I bothered giving you that cell phone since you never use it.” Dean dropped down next to Castiel with a weary sigh.

Castiel took the phone from Dean’s outstretched hand. “You were asleep.”

“Yeah, and a little text would have saved me the heart attack when I woke up.” As soon as he said the words, Dean flushed and looked away.

Castiel grabbed Dean’s arm before he could pull it off the back of the bench. “I’m sorry,” Castiel said, trying to catch the other man’s eyes, “and I’m okay, truly.”

“Good, ‘cause I need someone to look out for my ass next hunt.”

“I assure you: that will not be a problem.

Dean laughed at that, finally meeting Castiel’s eyes, his trademark smirk on his lips. Castiel responded with one of his own. They must have looked quite foolish, staring at each other with twin grins. Castiel never noticed, to busy watching as the barely-there lines formed at the edge of Dean’s eyes, only apparent with a genuine smile. He traced the path from there to Dean’s stubble covered jaw to the inviting swell of his bottom lip and down further, until thoughts of how his body would feel under Castiel’s hands invaded his mind.

Dean gasped and Castiel watched as Dean wet his lips, causing him to think about the many ways he could elicit more than just a gasp from Dean. Neither man could look away. Dean leaned forward, eyes darkening as a shudder ran through his body and, at the last second, stood from the bench.

A dog walker rounded the corner and Dean spared her a garbled apology after nearly knocking her over. He stopped in the middle of the path, head down and shoulders hunched.

Castiel released the breath he held and closed his eyes, trying to will away the sudden heat in his body. The need was always there-- to touch, to taste-- but he had never acted on it and tried to ignore it. He took another breath, welcoming the caress of the cool morning breeze, and waited for his pulse to slow.

He threw away his empty cup, then approached Dean. “You’re going to be run over if you stay in the middle of the path.”

Dean blinked. “Huh?” He blinked again. “Uh, yeah.” He took one large step to the side. Castiel mimicked the movement. “Well, since you’re walking around, I figure we can check out a lead I saw on the news while you were… napping. That is, if you’re up for it.”

“Oh, I’m up.”

It wasn’t until Dean started laughing that Castiel realized what he said.

“Okay, buddy. Whatever you say. Let’s get the hell outta this town.”


	17. Chapter 17

“Classic case, Cas. She was cheated on by husband-of-the-year so now she’s ganking the dudes banging the nannies. One quick salt-n-burn and we are done. Simple.”

Simple. Right.

The pallid and unexpectedly strong ghost of Amanda Wheeler loomed over Castiel, feet on either side of him as he lay in the grass. Dean, launched to the other side of the graveyard as soon as his shovel hit the wood of Amanda’s coffin, groaned in the darkness.

Amanda Wheeler never moved. She stared down at Castiel with cool blue eyes. The wind whipped around them as Amanda stood, as still as only the dead could, until she crouched down and ran her dry, frozen thumb across Castiel’s bottom lip. A chill ran through Castiel body at her touch. He could not move as she rest her hand on his chest, just over his heart. The ghost's eyes, before only filled with icy fury, flooded with tears.

“You understand,” she said, her voice reverberating in the darkness despite her whisper.

“What?”

“Betrayal.”

The gunshot interrupted anything else Amanda had to say. The ghost dissipated with a gust of frozen wind, showering Castiel with rock salt. Sitting up, Castiel saw Dean standing across the grave, the shotgun barrel in his hands still smoking.

“You alright, Cas?”

Before Castiel had a chance to reply, Dean crashed into the tree behind him, hit by the ghost’s renewed wrath. Amanda Wheeler appeared before Dean, her white hair writhing like snakes in the wind, her face twisted into an inhuman snarl. She stretched out her hand and the wind became a storm, cold despite the summer heat. Dean clutched at his throat, trying to catch his breath.

Fighting against the wind, Castiel crawled toward the discarded duffel bag. He stooped over it, trying to shield his face from the onslaught of dust and debris, and threw salt and lighter fluid into the grave. Castiel reached into his jeans pocket, his numb fingers wrapping around the smooth plastic of a lighter. One hand sheltering the lighter from the wind, Castiel brought the flame to life. The serene face of the Virgin stared at him as he dropped it into the grave.

A scream rang out and flames roared before him, bathing the graveyard in red for a brief moment. The wind stopped with such finality that Castiel’s ears popped. Castiel pushed himself back onto his feet and walked over to Dean who leaned back against the tree trunk with a hand against his chest, his breath heaving.

“That’s like, twice in a row you saved my bacon,” Dean said his voice rough despite his grin. “Gonna lose all my street cred if I keep this up.”

Castiel had no idea what Dean meant-- he had a feeling Dean knew that from his reaction to Castiel’s head tilt-- but Castiel’s question died in his throat. A small river of blood slid down Dean’s head, from hairline to cheek. Castiel dug out a mostly clean cloth from his pocket, but when his life his hand to clean the blood, Dean batted his hand away.

“I’m fine, Cas. It’s only looks bad ‘cause it’s on my head.”

“Just let me take care of you for a change.”

For a split second, Dean’s eyes widened. He lowered his hand and turned his head towards Castiel without further comment. Castiel leaned forward, wiping away the blood to get a better view of the cut.

Dean was correct. The cut only looked bad because of the placement and it already begun to close up. It did not make seeing Dean’s blood any easier. Castiel took his time cleaning Dean’s face, erasing any trace of red, allowing the warmth of the other man’s skin to chase away the chill the ghost had buried into his bones.

“Hey, you alright? You’re shivering.” Dean peered at him with concerned eyes.

Castiel tried to smile. He was not sure it worked. “I’m fine.”

The blood was gone. There was not much reason to stay close to Dean now but he did not want to move.

“Not getting squeamish on me now, are you?”

“No. It’s-- There was a time I could just--” here Castiel pressed two fingers to Dean’s forehead-- “and take away your hurt.”

“Cas.”

Castiel sighed. Dean was doing it again, looking at him with such care and concern, that Castiel scarcely gave it any thought when he took Dean’s face in his hands and leaned in.

He probably could have chosen a better setting. The burning grave did give the graveyard a rather romantic glow. The smell, on the other hand, was anything but. It did not matter.

Dean’s soft moan as their lips met, the way he rest his hands on Castiel shoulders, how their bodies fit together, felt completely perfect. Castiel did not pull away. He got caught up in Dean and the taste of his mouth, the warmth of his body chasing away the chill. It was a long time either of them let go, only separating far enough to rest their foreheads together.

“That was,” Castiel wet his lips, surprised by how rough he sounded, “okay?”

Dean chuckled softly, his voice just as rough as Castiel’s. “Yeah. I’d say that was okay.”


	18. Chapter 18

Someone grabbed his arm. The hand was rough and calloused, used to holding a gun. Castiel needed to get away. They were probably a cop and it would be best if they never discovered what was in his pockets but the colours disoriented him. He could not move.

The hand shook him and someone said his name. How could they know that? They shouldn’t know that. A second hand joined the other, holding him by his shoulders now. He felt a body looming over him.

Castiel sprang into action. He gripped the person’s wrists, knocked their legs out and rolled them over, pinning their arms above their head. He straddled the person’s hips, pushing their body down into the mattress.

Wait. Mattress?

“Whoa, whoa! Cas, dude! You’re dreaming.”

Castiel opened his eyes. Even though confusion and sleep fog, Castiel had to admit the sight of Dean underneath him, clad in only a t-shirt and underwear was not unpleasant in the least. He loosened his grip on Dean’s wrists, but neither man made any effort to untangle.

“Dean?”

“Uh, yeah. That must of been some freaky dream. What are you, a ninja?”

“Only once.”

“Right. Naturally. Well, now you’re not yelling anymore we can go back to sleep.”

Neither man moved. Castiel watched as Dean swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. Dean made quite the sight, limbs splayed across the bed, his arms loose and easy in Castiel’s hold. Most people, Castiel figured, would be a little tense after being flipped onto their back so quickly, but Dean had allowed Castiel to overpower him. Dean stayed completely at ease under Castiel, staring up at him, waiting to see how he would act.

Dean’s shirt lifted over his hip, the angle of his hipbone highlighted by the room’s low light. Castiel traced every angle, every visible hair and freckle on the exposed skin with his eyes, but looking was not enough.

Castiel moved with deliberate care, telegraphing every move so Dean could stop him at anytime. The air was sucked out of the room, both men scarcely breathing as Castiel ran his hand down Dean’s cotton shirt, the fabric tickling his palm. When Castiel touched Dean’s bare skin, both men started to breathe again. Dean grabbed Castiel’s shoulders and pulled him down into a kiss

Their movements sped up as the frantic need to touch every part of each other overwhelmed them. Dean’s shirt ended up lost somewhere in the dark corners of the room. Castiel kissed his way down smooth skin, feeling the rapid thump of Dean’s heart through his open mouth. He was delighted to discover that, when his fingers moved just the right way over the hollow at Dean’s hips, Dean’s whole body shivered.

Dean reached out with soft, tentative touches down Castiel’s naked back. He grew bolder with each second, his fingers curling into Castiel’s hair. As blissful as Dean’s slow exploration of Castiel’s body felt, Castiel needed more, needed to be closer. Castiel drew back just enough to look Dean in the face, his eyes dark and lips swollen. The sight caused heat to shiver down Castiel’s body. He rolled his hips, eliciting a satisfied groan from both men.

“Is this okay?” Castiel asked, his hands working their way into Dean’s waistband. “If you want me to stop I can. Anytime.”

With a grin Dean raised his hips, allowing Castiel to undress him.

“Want this,” Dean whispered, pulling Castiel back on top of him, “want you.”

The words, laced with lust and desire, broke the last of Castiel’s hesitance. They did not need to talk anymore, not when Castiel could use his mouth in much better ways and Dean could say so much with just his body. Castiel made it his mission to discover every part of Dean, to hear every groan of pleasure, to memorize the taste of him. He worked them both to the edge, until their bodies trembled with need for release.

Blunt fingernails dug into Castiel’s shoulders. “Please, Cas. Need you.”

The raw emotion in those words drove Castiel toward the edge. Fueled by Dean’s ragged cry, Castiel fell into Dean, his body tingling with aftershocks.

Too satisfied to roll away, Dean stroked his hand up and down Castiel’s back, his fingers occasionally carding through sweat-damp hair. When Castiel finally made a reluctant effort to pull away, Dean’s palm flattened against Castiel’s back.

“We need to--”

“I know. Just--” Dean buried his face in the crook of Castiel’s neck and took a shuddering breath. Castiel felt it shake through his whole body. “Just give me a minute.” Dean’s hand continued its movement.

Castiel lay there, content to stay as long as Dean needed. He did not mind if it were forever.


	19. Chapter 19

Castiel lived for the time in between.

After each hunt, Castiel and Dean collapsed into bed together, exhausted but alive. It never mattered how much his body ached or how many bruises he acquired, once he wrapped himself around Dean.

It was in those moments as they lay in the dark, tired but unable to sleep, that Dean would speak. He told Castiel a lot of things. He talked about growing up, about how he and his brother bounced from school to school, teaching Dean not to form too many attachments in his life. Perhaps Castiel should have taken that as a warning, but instead he held Dean closer.

Dean told Castiel about the first time he held a gun, his hands barely large enough to reach the trigger.

He told him about a boy named Tom, who he met at a confusing age. Tom was the one who taught Dean to ignore his feelings towards other boys.

He told him about his family, about his father and brother, love steeped into every word. Castiel could hear the sadness.

And, in the hours before dawn, when the world was still asleep, Dean told Castiel about his mother.

She was a series of impressions: blonde hair, kind eyes, and the smell of cinnamon. Dean’s eyes shone as he recalled the story of her death and Castiel embraced him a little tighter that night. He hoped it helped.

Castiel, in turn, told Dean about his life.

He told him about faraway places, hidden on Earth. There was a cave deep beneath the ocean floor where, if one stood in just the right place, he could hear the sound of the universe.

He told him about the garrison, about being a soldier, and what it felt like to fly.

He told him about his first few years on Earth, about the drugs and his time without a home, and how he sometimes when home with a stranger just to find a warm bed for the night.

Dean buried his face in Castiel’s neck after that, refusing to let go until long after the sun had risen.

It was not all talk, of course. They spent many nights learning each other’s bodies, discovering that they fit together perfectly.

It was the time in between-- when they stopped on the side of the road to stare at a giant statue just because they could-- that Castiel learned to live.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... I did say in the beginning this was ending on a downer, right? Okay, consider this your reminder.


	20. Chapter 20

“It’s been months. Where have you--”

The wind developed quite the bite the last few days. Castiel certainly noticed it more due to the lack of warmth coming from the other side of the bed.

“No, sir. Not questioning. Just wondering why now.”

Castiel rolled over, his hand reaching out to the empty space beside him. The bathroom door stood ajar, the tiny sliver of light highlighting the white bed sheet.

“Yes. Yes, sir. I understand.”

Dean snapped his phone shut as he walked into the main room, scrubbing his fingers over his eyes. When he stumbled back to the bed, he paused, his hand poised over the blanket once he noticed Castiel was awake.

“Hey, Cas. Did I wake you?” Dean settled down beside Castiel.

Reaching out his hand to trace the downward curve of Dean’s mouth, Castiel shook his head. Dean managed to look even more tired than when they first went to sleep, his eyes sunken into the deep shadows of his face.

“Are you alright?” Castiel asked.

Dean smiled, but it shook under Castiel’s thumb, threatening to break. “Me? I’m always alright.”

Before Castiel had a chance to respond, Dean reached out and pulled Castiel flush against his body. Castiel let Dean take control, let him pepper kisses down his neck and chest, let him capture Castiel’s lips in deep, meaningful kisses. Dean’s hands roamed over every inch of Castiel’s body, his touches long and lingering, as if he were trying to commit Castiel’s shape to memory. Dean took Castiel apart with agonizing slowness, bringing them both to the very edge before drawing back, determined to continue the night forever.

When Dean finally pushed them both over the edge, Castiel lost himself in the bliss of satisfaction. Dean clung to him, head pressed tightly to Castiel’s chest, muttering something over and over. The sound of it lulled Castiel to sleep, though he could not understand the words.

***

The Impala rumbled to life from her parking spot behind the motel door, making the entire room vibrate. Castiel did not have to reach out to know that the space beside him was empty. He did anyway.

It was not the first time woke up without Dean next to him. Those days, Dean would appear a few minutes later with a fresh case and even fresher coffee for them both. This was not one of those mornings, Castiel knew. He waited anyway.

Dean’s duffel bag was gone, along with the gun he kept by the door and the knife he hid under the pillow. His leather jacket was removed from the hook in the closet. The little pieces of Dean, like the boots Castiel never failed to trip over in his groggy morning haze, were gone. 

Dean was gone.

The worst part was what was left behind. Dean had clearly put thought into it. A pile of folded clothes lay out on the table by the window, along with some weapons, money, and credit cards with names like “Steven Tyler.”

Castiel ran his hands over the clothing. Most, if not all of it, belonged to Dean. They kept intending to shop for Castiel’s own clothes but it never happened. Castiel did not mind. Dean always got a glint in his eye when he saw Castiel wearing one of his old shirts.

Castiel picked up a faded t-shirt with a peeling band logo across the chest. He stared at it. The urge to rip it to shreds, to pull it apart until nothing but tiny pieces remained, overwhelmed him until he brought it close to his face. He could smell the oil and leather scent that followed Dean around like a cloak. He dropped the shirt. It fluttered to his feet, abandoned. Castiel lay back down on the bed.

Time passed. It must have. The streak of light Castiel watched on the ceiling moved from one side to the other, until it disappeared into shadow. He stared at that shadow for a long while.

The motel clerk pounded at the door when the light appeared again, his muffled voice demanding Castiel vacate the room. Castiel stared at the light, starting its long journey again, as the door rattled. He heard the clerk mutter something about a key, then his stomps as he left.

Castiel did not belong here.

He packed away everything he could. When he picked up the shirt on the floor he pulled it over his head.

By the time the clerk returned, Castiel was long gone.

Castiel walked down the highway. It did not matter where, just that he moved. He walked until he was exhausted and then he walked some more. He walked because if he stopped he would have to think. He would have to think about that night, about how Dean held him so tightly, about how Dean muttered over and over again:

_I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry._

He walked.    

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know! I'm sorry! I tried to keep them together but Dean needs to figure himself out. I'm just as mad as you are, I promise. They reunite in "In Between," so please hurry on over there. I will post the first couple chapters right away.
> 
> Thank you all so, so much for taking a chance on me. I hope to see you again. :)


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